Torment and tempest of a woman,
Hunger that got winged,
I believe in the final movements of the soul,
In story-famelic carnivores.
 
They have no filter or vocal chords.
The final movements of the soul are pathetic, grotesque.
They’re monstruous.
As the almost-human masks of Venice carnivals,
That swirl in that chaotic, candid, colorful burlesque.
 
Absolute pure things are monstrous-
Not even kindness or evil exist in such a form.
Purity is the naked core of interstellar dust;
The naked core of everything that forever will seem lost,
Even if it’s a second away.
 
So when the horizon gets lilac tinged,
I adore the monstruous dances,
And I can let you lead an sway.
 
I like storms because of their natural, indifferent, primal monstruosity,
Because it frightens the masses.
In stormy nights, in its rain moisten-hot efervescence,
all passions and horrors are set loose.
See that venom is the cure-
And let witches do what witches do best: seduce.
 
Lestat was right:
No one is safe from nature's savagery,
not even the innocent.
Only beauty is consistent.
 
Therefore, as only total purity is truly beautiful…
Why do keep calling the ‘innocent’ pure?
 
Nevertheless, I’m not saying darkness takes that place.
However, darkness distorts, tames-
And makes you wonder everything’s true nature.
There we put horrors and passions,
Because beneath that light that nurtures,
Everything belongs to everyone.
Whilst in darkness... everything belongs to itself.
Swallows, devours, covers, soothes,
In a silent summon to our primal knowledge.
 
Elevated minds feed from the things they create-
They delight in their intelligence, in their indifference to fate.
That’s the first movement;
What only gods were able to do: make.
 
And yet
Compass, anesthesia, penicilin, airplanes.
Writing, printing press, wheel, fire, internet.
 
Poetry.
 
We cannot contain this hunger-
This craving to create.
Defying every law of nature, we defy ourselves,
We deny the gods, we say we’ve escaped the cage;
Yet every social law is designed to contain…
human nature.
 
Paradigms and praxis
Are forever changing, forever obtuse.
All we have to do is remember, go back to simple,
Until we’ve come face to face to needs and instincts,
To primigene aesthetics, when there was no mincing.
 
We’ve become gods and we’re still mocking the last ones;
We have created, something no other being ever could.
Those sprouts of brilliancy, of divinity-
those are the final movements of the soul.
 
And anything unbound is savage.
Is monstruous.
 
Unbound thoughts ravage eras-
But those ideas have launched us forward.
 
Our last and first purpose is now dormant,
Sleeping beneath the waves.
Please dare.
Before swimming shoreward,
Dare to brush with a silvery comb
all the deep-sea canvasses.
Please dare.
Before grasping clouds as cotton-candy,
dare to create fearlessly of time and humanity,
and dare to compete with gods. 
 
They’re bigger but not better, witch of mine.
Dare to do magic, learn to inspire,
And fight to survive your own monstruous beauty-
You, first creature to understand the complex simply,
You, child of your century… child of your time.