Vésanie noire vésanie noire

.

The mystic-man joined the gathering for the gentry, priviliged fauna of the Mother Russia and its bald steppes. Bald of cold and bald of wind. Bald of hunger and bald of mystic.

... Out, at the suburbs, the silvery city built for all the Russian saints beholds itself paralyzed in gelidity, as the tall-yellow grasses dance combed by the frozen winds of the autumn:
the days when October falls are here.

Out, at the suburbs.


Inside, meanwhile, the gathering of love is meeting the mystic-dervish's flesh, with the anal tepidness of the grand ladies
the astral illumination coming from Rasputin, regent of all the Russias. Sex, sex, sex, sex; just Russian sex as cosmic illumination; sex as key for the flesh that drives the mind insane; sex without an end: vésanie noire.

Into the Imperial bedchambers that despise the suburbian and tall-yellow grasses, a Russian tango is danced:

fatal, cold, as all the tangos are... the snow is yet a terrible promise whitewashing the spectral dolls' face.

Into the Imperial bedchambers, where the children are served alive in banquet, the mystic-man smiles like a sinister night fowl: the sweet liquor and the red meat stain his teeth... hidden behind the tablecloth, an aristocratic madam in all fours, blowjobs him in like a lamia.

Now, the sequence shows him horribly mutilated: the shadow of the magic-man lies deep down on the bottom of their October’s river.

Now, the sequences run astrologically maddened, this second is happening one second ago, today is tomorrow and tomorrow is yesterday:
diapositives without a chronological order, everything is all at the same time.

Now, the imposing Battalions of the Peoples of the World come, marching.

Marching.

Marching.