Virtue cries – work in progress

You all know my love for The Marquis de Sade or, rather, studying his life. Every now and then I like to work on a creative piece. This is a piece I was working on last year, and just completely forgot about. I was to submit it for Blue Fringe Arts, but didn’t finish it in time.

Since completing my honours dissertation: “Sade and the death of the virtuous woman: The construction of virtue in Justine“, I have been contemplating undergoing a PhD. I know I want to focus on Sade, once again, the problem is that I cannot decide on whether to write another dissertation, or do a creative piece instead.

Maybe you can help me decide?

Want to read more of my works on the Marquis de Sade?
Read the short story, Letter to the Marquise
Read the poem, My name is beauty


Stolen away at just fourteen years
Reduced to nothing and left in tears
With chastity cherished, her fate is sealed

Her virtue cries and weakens to vice
For her conviction, it is her price.
Defying chaos, defying Nature
Justine soon falls, poor innocent creature.
Unwelcome, this is not her own world
She lies lost, lonely little girl.
But she falls to her own grotesque sin
of growing pride, her vain delight in
purity fair, chastity true
They are taken; as blood from rue

Alas! we find her faith runs deeper
Even when placed with soulless preachers

Her searing flesh beneath the brand
And bones cracking under their hand.

© 2016

An Ode to Bipolar

Published in the 2016 Blue Fringe Arts Short Story and Poetry Anthology: Speak Out
blue-fringe-arts-001

An Ode to Bipolar

Into sadness,
a sometimes forgotten spell.
Feverish, fetish, devouring all.
Yet when deprived,
a fondness; so yearning
and lachrymose.
Of tears, weeping
the flower
of being.
And necromancy,
an embrace;
a plea for answers,
but soft and deafening
the shadowed face.

Perpetual madness,
a labyrinth of decaying
thought and nameless love,
where spectres dance, and ravage,
and sentence the mind
to answer.
Damnation.
Doom.

But the hummingbird,
the sublime,
the beauty within.
Does it linger? Why does it so?
The love foretold,
and wisteria singing.
Creepers entangling,
strangling no more.
And leaden drops no longer
fill the lands with despair.

© 2016

Want to read more of my Blue Fringe Arts works?
Click here

And Cinderella, poisoned

And Cinderella, poisoned,
in Salem dwells
a fevered hell
where the fire, stoked,
and the final knell
ends not the spell.
But the fairy tale
no longer tells
of the broken, burning shell
A charming love for her, forgotten
an end to his passionate swell
so into sorrow, she fell
All this, she foretells

© 2016

And love was stolen

And love was stolen
by a fool, by a coward
Stole her from me
But willing, she left

Tainted, and the shadow fell
A cloak, and took all forgiveness
stole her dreams
stole her happiness

But forbade her, I
never to be with him
and to humiliate
To be mine, until

The day
All donned in white
A mockery, a sin
To make them see

And in that hour
I buried within my heart
the dagger of her betrayal
to let them all see

And yet they could not
The horror
The heart
and no sorrow

Banished, disowned
and I became
a victim of my own desire
for vengeance

To the drink, to the faery
as dread stole me,
and slowly, the seed of wrath
grew and bloomed

And taken, I found the being
Loath to leave myself behind
but a creature foul, I became
and took his life, her love

Took his life
to bring her misery
one last time, for my heart
never healed and peace never found

© 2016

She speaks to angels

This is a work in progress.


She:
Breaking through these hardships
though I’d never looked up from the roses
when the darkness reached the silence
and the sorrow in his eyes

I was lost
and lonely
and so cold in there
Forgotten beneath the stars
I took all of his love
And fought it through the night

Embracing all of the madness
So lost was my mind…
Lost
so lost
inside

He:
She speaks to angels
Burns and decays
And flies away…
From her heart
in which sombrous daemons dwell
tearing me from her

© 2016

The crossroads – in the afterlife

Stirring, and whispers
within a burning
Desire summons,
therein, so brewing
for death

The lost, lie as prey
while the lonely stray
though walking in
the light; the crimson deep
her sight
and death to befall them
so it is foretold

Enticing and delighting, yet
defies
The mark withers
from her reach
Desire anew
for the ones who stole;
life deprived
for those who shall steal;
their lives, their fate now sealed
to decide
to crush and smother
suffocate
the evil

The fallen sing
avenged

For her murder:
Promised to another
her death but a dream
from the misery in her
enslavement to come
but before the ring is even placed
to adorn her stolen hand
the blood is spilled as a torrent, and
doomed she is, for her finger is bare, and
doomed to become the creature, the Strigoaicǎ

For their murders:
To come
she will be their voice,
their fists, their swords
when they have none.

© 2016

Beneath the crossroads

And when from the grave,
the birth of everlasting,
the sorrow is no longer
Gentle mists of alabaster
embrace and caress
life anew
For to come undone,
no longer
Transcending the forgotten,
the spires of dread that nest within,
now, light all but withers
Though sugar-wisps strain, striate
and a tear
though happily
Dead among
beneath the crossroads

© 2016