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By AnonymLaura Gentile
A cascade of thousands of pomegranate pits fructify her from above and female hands maculate the goddess's body in the musical mists of mind-blowing nightly sex. But they won't fuck her, they will kill her.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Banned and lionised by drunken cactuses, eternally sanguine in black and white, raw like the majestic sex on her ruby red deathswoman mouth, silver-coated terror in her eyes.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
By the time he painted Estefania's features, her appearance had already been hag-ridden and struck by sheer madness and delusion. But he still did what so many other male painters did before him; he created an idol.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Crime scenes of pure sex, thorns on her body, blow-dry.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Estefania knew how to read an artist and their visions; her body would guide them through the melancholia and loneliness of a female body. Its unclaimed ecstasy.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Estefania tried to deracinate the hostile voices that pottered around her mind, yet she felt threatened and paranoid, lamenting the state she had put herself in.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Estefania was an observant mother, but not for the sake of her children.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Everything his parents repressed, Severin contracted and kept, collected almost, with the ambition to revive it when needed.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
For example, the gaze of a painted woman's face following the viewer around the room would be an appreciated accomplishment for the Zweighaupt Powerhouse, but for the Vienneses there would be something wrong with it, and the attention should not be returned.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Gabriela's pupils were immoveable tempests, dark tunnels spiraling down into invisibility, terrifying the mother. They sat still amongst the greenish-brown puddle and attacked Estefania in total muteness.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Heat in her birds of prey fingertips, smoke of gilded flowers in her aureate gorging hair.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
He locked himself up in his sanctuary of art and carried the keys with him at all times. He maintained the social façade for financial security. The more tragedies were shackled to his name, the more demand there was for his public persona to clean up after the family name and showcase his art to overshadow his domestic disasters. His prominent reputation in the limelight of the town kept buzzing while the man behind the infamy withered in privacy.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
He witnessed the destruction of everything he had ever created. These are the crippled pieces, the faces that he was stuck with; a puppet show that he could not get out of, all the strings tangled, the dead attached to the living.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
He would have died rather quickly to not lose track of his wife in the afterlife.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
He would not live the life of his daughter by falling apart and not giving her anything but anticipated grief and collateral heartache. He wanted to imprint paternal love on her body. Maybe she would be strong and regenerated enough to stay, and maybe his intense affection would work its magic.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
How she would push her identity further down into a cacophony of fiend-infested darkness where she couldn't hear her proper voice anymore, just pleasing those who demanded a distorted version of her.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
I believe in Aphrodite, I believe in insane thinkers, I believe in roaring free-spirits, I believe in full-throated poetry, I believe in feverish sex and moony love with all its facets.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Lose myself in your blueberry eyes Magnolia, kiss your mauve lips of grapes, squeeze your fleshy, milky macaroon breasts,smell your opium breath of subconsciousness, labyrinth of desires.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Love may be able to force you into precarious situations, it may lead you into double-edged bonfires and you don't smell the smoke, you only see the temptation of a perfume.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Marcelian Piaffus adored the heirloom's macabre biography, she could tell. Strangely enough, he had a disregard for its severity despite his beliefs, especially in the hands of a child, and even though Estefania had always been aware that darkness could latch itself onto objects, having grown up among unspeakable atrocities, she decided her daughter had too much grit to decline into madness.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
No one could decrypt a mother better than her own children, who had shared her body and therefore knew all of her secrets, anxieties, shortcomings, and buttons to push. Estefania feared nothing more than the betrayal of someone she accommodated and gave life to with her scarce resources.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Now we lie here, a decapitated generation, our child-like names vanishing on tombstones, can't you see? Once there was Rock 'n' Roll, freedom of speech, baroque picnics on miraculous boats, there was resurrection on romantic lakes, there were melting kisses under golden trees, there was ticking laughter, clicking metaphors, there were wine and poetic sex, beauty...
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Revolted and offended, this child was fighting her mother in her head and did not even blink.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
She could taste her children on her tongue, the colors they wore. Jacqueline was yellow. Gunnar was blue. Gabriela had always been red. All their weight. Their history inside of her. And she remembered her mother's synesthesia and was startled as guilt crept up her throat.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
She didn't know how to react to his non-sexualisation of her, and as she stared at his silent face, she recognized a familiar pain, a sense of not being there.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
She had performed as a shape-shifter with no sense of identity.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
She is a compassionate Amazon forming a muse from misery, full of graphic words, she doesn't hide, she speaks, she writes, she uses words that individualise her, she goes deeper and people cannot grasp her, they are frustrated, she is condemned because she is herself, she puts her self in the world and the world misunderstands her because she is uncomfortable.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
She knew those horrid words were addressed to her. They felt like the icy tip of an arrow meant to conjure up destruction, coming from the most venomous abyss imaginable, rammed right into her chest with the utmost authority, entitlement, and pleasure.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
She was now more than ever confronted with the outward cries of help that leaped at her like an overflowing bathtub where the water had grown cold and rancid. The catastrophe had caught up with her. It had always been there, a re-emerging siren in scarlet tones, a temptation of the abysmal artillery of the brain, a carousel waltzing with crazed horses, the heel-clicking and tap-dancing back chambers where arthropods lay on their carapaces.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Simultaneously, the child's life-mongering energy felt a metamorphosis within itself, having lost all matter and yet still being summoned by intoxicating ideas, an aching fluency of desires, a liberating rearranging buoyancy.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Suddenly, Gabriela felt an unusual hand on her shoulder, branding itself through her clothing. Someone leaned against her body. A head now lay on her shoulder, and blond-reddish strands of hair that were not hers fell over her chest. The hand was glisteningly white with a hint of gray and overflown with blue, halted seams, and rested on Gabriela's hand like a stone on sand.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
That was when Estefania, who had made her pain the world’s pain, stood up, her knees dirty, shaking, her tights torn. She took a distanced look around and then she started tearing her tights even more. She kicked her expensive shoes through the wind, then she ripped off her dress, screaming as if it were burning, her second skin, her role as an actress, her one-woman show, as if she herself were on fire, as if her clothes were drenched in acid and abandoned love.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
The boundaries were destroyed; it was all in the open, the rotting animal of her soul, the tickling sickness in the tumultuous cacophony in her mother's vibrating skull that spoke only to itself in everlasting distortions.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
The dense fog manifests ever-living gravestones, the tunes of decadence, the hearts that were doomed to dance alone. Here lies untouched beauty, a brittle dream, an unseen sea-born nightmare, an isolated acheirous harf, fishbones without flesh, a face without letters, the hypnotic power o Apollonian destruction. Ashes kiss the grapefruit essential oil skin, the soul beats with eaten sons and daughters, soaking wet serpents with cuspid tongues lollop for legendary goddesses.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Their raspy kisses brand our jam tart necks, their treacherous miasma clasps our herbal thighs. Motherlessly we surrender, too many fathers we have, we, your daughters of joy.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
The mother was convinced that the purchase of this piece of furniture would facilitate the bond she so hungered for with Gabriela, although she hated the unnerving history associated with the paravent. But, she thought, what could it possibly do to a child?
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
There she stood, hiding; the mother without child, the voiceless woman full of anger. Her smoked nails hammered her evaporated heart snivelling in the grotty kitchen of disaster. Her face, depleted, cauterised. Her eyes wheezed shame at what she knew would happen to her daughter, again and all over again.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
These hands elate my life, choke me, broil my bosom, spank me, give fire to my words, my words, mother, my heart beats in my words.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
The triumph for Cameliano was that he found his truth of Estefania by disregarding hers, which had always been an established fact. But she deliberately embraced his intentions to cover it up.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
The widower glanced at her wedding ring and contemplated a solitary life with his son, but then the mayhem of his marital allegiance resurfaced, and he decided not to betray her.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
They burn books now, mama.The monsters burn fucking books now, mama. They have eyes full of disappointing madness. Their tongues taste like fulvous indoctrination. They teach us. Teach us sadism, hatred, lust to kill, conformity. What do you see when you look at me? Daddy?
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
They can fly and they howl, they slaughter depression and headaches, they daydream like gangbanging daffodils, orchids and cherry blossoms grasping mauve toffee clouds, they breastfeed laughter.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
They had been the reason for the receding love between her and her husband. She claimed a substitution for her sacrifices, an amendment of her situation.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
They possessed a peaceful relic to set their child free, and the simulacrum they had fed would fade away.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
They would chase the image rising from death, expect it, but then enter an empty room with a shrine of deadened memorabilia that made them lose their minds.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
When she reached out to the little girl in her, nothing erupted but the dense muteness of her own children in her belly. She felt helpless, alienated from her mirror-image, perceiving her body as a shallow vessel, possessed by human beings that she never met, draining her energy and suppressing her proper self, which she considered absent again.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
While his parents never stopped being enigmas to him, Estefania's physicality felt graspable to him, a promise that would not withdraw itself. In Estefania, he saw a world to be painted.
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By AnonymLaura Gentile
Why do you reduce art to an autobiography? Once a piece of art is concluded and ejected into the world it changes with every single pair of eyes and becomes an endless object of transformation. The spectator makes it his or her own. Don't decontextualize it and call it truth, call it your perspective.
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