by Nick
As Ian Dorff and the rest of the Disease took their place on the stage of the Church, they melded with the ebony veil that blanketed the stage, which through the darkness seemed to become an virus, dark shadows oozing down on the dance floor to overtake the onlookers. A long drawn out silence was a knifes edge, gutting and cutting everyone’s patience. In the stillness the Goths waited, unsure if they liked the cessation of sound or the seeds of emotion in their stomach which expanded with the water of anticipation. Someone thought of screaming, but the noise was quenched by fear of rebuke, for the nothingness seemed to develop into an art that no one wanted to taint with screams or catcalls.
From the front of a stage, a light turned on, revealing crimson lips. "Evening," the lips said, emitting a voice that flowed over the crowd like a breeze of velvet. The crowd hung on the word, feeding off the small parcel tossed at them like ravaged dogs. Wasn’t there going to be music? Should they leave? The seconds that passed were longer than the first and the crowd was stared at the stage, wide eyed, waiting to be saved from the deafless spell cast upon them, helpless against it’s powers, their will to weak to break it.
Rain drops. All around the dancefloor, raindrops descended. The splattering of their crashing echoed throughout the large room, trickling down walls. When the rain stopped, no one was wet, however. Suddenly an angry note was played, and the serenity formed by the rainfall was like a bomb going off in the room. No one shouted, for they weren’t sure if they were released from their bondage to silence. Another angry note, this one deeper, puncturing the chains, but still, the crowd was silent. Like a whirlwind, the lead guitar let out a fast barrage of violent tunes; the speakers, lined up all around the Church spewed out the hostility onto the edgy crowd and all knew the disease was spread.
Flashing strobe lights lit the stage, revealing the shepherds with their instruments, but only for split seconds. Atop the Church, a spotlight seemingly bleached the dancefloor and those who writhed there for a second, and than, blinded, darkness fell upon them again. A low, organ sound conflicted with the Wa-wa sounds that escalated and intensified, but they worked well together to confuse.
"Glossy eyed desires staring up at you beneath the table," the lips sang in a deep voice, melodic "You can’t discard the memories and you can’t throw away your fragility." The lyrics erupted like a volcano, hot ash falling upon those who dared to come to watch.
When the first song neared it’s end, the stage seemed to coruscate, the song sinuous, a coil wrapping around the emotions of the dancers and choking them. Orgasmic, the end would not end, building and building; it raped the innocent of their naiveté and reinstated faith to the unbelievers. The lips, always lighted, sang the final lyrics to the song, the words dripping off like honey. "The patch to cover the jungle that dwells in these orbs. The match to set you afire once more. Burnt, charred… so slender in this grip. So tender, you slip on these dreams of Camelot."
The rainfall came again, a storm now, winds there but not. Strobe lights slashed through the crowd and on stage a half -face appeared, teasing all who watched as it hid in the darkness and drifted around the stage like a windup toy. A guitar solo, halting in it’s notes, seemed to dig a hole into the crowd, a fester growing off their hatred. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh……," the half-face screeched at them, the scream barbed with hatred, a whip lashing out at them in all their ignorance. The music came to a stop, the storm subsided. All the Goths watched as the half-face disappeared into the darkness…
Regretfully, the silence came alive again. Kine’s heads throbbed from the music that was injected into them from all sides; they shivered from the message that they were fed, the taste as cold as ice. For each one at the Church, the message was different, but everyone had a message…a secret that hurt more than life.
Usually, many would go to the bar for a drink, but none left the floor, for there, in that confined area, the message seemed to exist. Only there. Someone called out to the stage, beckoning the band to lead the sheep to their master. Manifesting itself on the middle of the stage the same slender half-face appeared. A hand, bleached white rose up to wave at the crowd before it. It rose higher, reaching up to the darkness above it, the half-face contorted with pain and lips seemingly praying. Suddenly the hand dropped and strummed the invisible guitar. Behind the half-face a bright light jostled the crowd and the instruments, in harmony played a sad tune, the lead guitar leading with it’s dispirited low key notes.
"Oh, I miss the faith a child sees in his fathers eyes. I regret the lies I could all of a sudden conceive." The voice and lyrics seemed to wane, the floor spilt with a hurt that stained the ground and crawled up the still legs of those who listened and those who did not.
"Oh, I can’t forget every wish I made and I can’t remember the silken morals," the half-face sang, and the Goths were confused as to whether they should dance or moan. "You can hang me with the noose of treachery, and grow the flowers of insecurity with water of doubt."
Lyrics led sadness, and sadness led lyrics. The depression caused an unstable feeling, a fragile psyche that would be easily broken. On a thin line the misery walked, and as each second passed, the line grew weaker and the hurt heavier, until the crowd snapped and on key, the mood, mercurial, collapsed and grew anew, fast paced and filled with anarchy. As the gloom was uplifted the half-face changed to a full face and it ran about on stage, appearing and disappearing, the voice harsh and condescending.
Changes so quick; no one could control themselves, releasing anything and everything; all hopes, all desires, all dreams gone as the song and lyrics wrapped them up in an escape. Everyone there knew it could not last forever … but for that song, it did.
The face that sang was agonized as it seemed to fight between being invisible and visible….
On stage the face hissed out degrading lyrics, it’s voice grating and filling the Church to the brim with fury. Carmine colored lights set the stage alight, revealing the band. The five of them seemed to illuminate like fallen seraphs, convulsing in the shimmering spotlight of sin. Ian Dorff stood center stage, guitar in hand, a cobalt ray painting him, gushing milky-white streams caressing his face as they fell from the cloud of smoke above him.
Rising and rising, the music came closer to a climax, the pace untamed and savage, fueling the strife that the masses below the stage fed from. From small boxes at the front of the stage, a fog clawed it’s way into the air, shading the lights upon the band and enveloping them in a misty smog. Abruptly, the music came to a halt. All stood still, exhausted, emotionally and physically spent after the fifteen minute song, but addicted and hungry for another round of pure emotion.
Bursting through the reddish film and silence, Ian ran to the edge of the stage and screamed the final lyrics down into the face of a stunned Goth. "Oohhh to violate you like I want…" and the words spread across the hushed gathering, the voice hanging on in vain to the last word, breaking, near cracking and vanishing after two long minutes. Quickly the darkness engulfed the platform, leaving only the malevolence to float about like a plague.
The striking of metal against metal rose quickly. Fast…faster… the clang clang clang churning the Goths into movement. At the end of every set of three clangs, the sound of gunshots went off, and the cadence was inescapable, those who sat before to listen finding themselves spiraling in the sounds.
"Those eyes, oh those eyes, I bet you sit and wonder what’s my agenda," a malleable voice sang, it’s voice changing, cycling through the emotions felt by the singer. "Cut this stomach open and watch my insides shiver and shake," the voice continued, the source of it hidden, but everywhere. "Poke holes in my face and watch this brain quake, eat me taste me, lick me from head to toe, I want you to know, rub this face in vain, shatter this hope with pain as you walk away eager to please, to put you at ease, make it difficult make it hard, we can always go back to the start," it went on, never stopping to take a breath, the emotions swirling like debris in a storm and being cast adrift. "Empty as faith and as full as desire I long for you to hold me inside those eyes, my tongue is frozen with awe and my mouth barely speaks, my chest tightens with anticipation."
Strobe lights, beating slowly into the crowd slowed down the pace of the dance, the lyrics torpid and slowing down the rasp of metal. In the same single sentence, the voice changed moods again, mixing feelings; sadness and joy colliding, wordly and holy wants tearing at each other…"your hold on me is so tight, infatuation, blinding lights, dance to the music to hypnotize and paralyze, submerge me in the velvet sea of green, bury this primal urge in those waters, to pray for tomorrow while I drown in stress to stay away from those orbs of mockery, eating, crawling on my flesh, tickle and tease, dumb memory like sand storms and sharp glass cutting dullness away, shining mysteries," the voice called out from all corners of the Church, "and nothing makes sense in those eyes…" The voice seemed to struggle ending the drawn out sentence.
Metal colliding, continued to whip about in the room, a bang bang thundering, signaling an end or beginning. Black as December’s midnight, the stage was quiet.
Waves washing upon a beach, crashing; thousands of droplets descending to the sands. The rhythm of want and hope and the scratchy lead of expectation. Soft as the clouds, a yellow light showers the stage, the band like a hazy day dream. The drums beating, a cudgel of peace upon the crowd.
For a long time the soothing music was played, it’s grasp on the mood gentle but firm. Like a helping hand, it pulled the many Goths there out of the delirium they were cast into by the songs before. Like a mother, it seemed to put them to sleep, to blanket their worries with love, their future with optimism.
A jaded-green light began to entwine itself with Ian, wrapping insubstantial hands around his body; his face was tranquil, the strife either buried deep within or cast away. His fingers working the electric guitar majestically, casting all into a state of bliss, a pure reverie. Opening his mouth to speak, a rasp, his voice was as brilliant as the one you could love. "Tonight I will say sweet dreams. This evening I can blow you a kiss good-bye. On an apathetic night like this I can have an undisturbed slumber, during this twilight I can walk away into the ebony nebula and never look back."
"With the grace of a tender pillow I can fantasize about the never ending fantasy of sleep. Never to wake again, I will not grow old, my face shaped with a heart like smile of perpetuity," Ian went on, the amiable, covering all with security and the ability to dream again. "In the void I will float on a cotton cloud towards nothing, for nothing is what I shall seek. Through the mouth of God I can be swallowed whole, for whole I was born, and whole I shall slip away into a measureless trance of nihility."
Ascending, as though he had not yet touched any, his voice trembled with urgency. "Say your adieu to me please, or join me in this eternal trip. Forever is the long night in the arms of a sleeping angel." Centering his joy on the strings of the guitar, he cleansed the room of it’s immorality, the solo creating foreign sounds and a foreign rest before Ian took a bow and the light died.
He had been listening to the disgustingly beautiful motif for a long time, staring at his gimlet-eyed piece of art, a malformation of love. Gregory shuddered, the disturbed relationship a glass pane of narcissism smeared with the vulgar desires of masochism and sadism which swelled like a blister in his cold, cold heart. Gregory was waiting for the addiction to finally burst, and then he would never crave to feel like he remember he once had.
All Vampires were degenerates, may it be their minds deteriorating like a clock’s music, it’s song slowly fading away until it’s tune is sick and feeble or their lust for consistency a crutch with many splinters, each sliver of order an infected, pussy sore hiding in the depths of their pits. Yes, each and every Vampire was cascading into a true death, like the blood that they drank cascaded upon the mouths that sang litanies to the greatness of sin and the truth you gained in drinking from its chalice of faith. Gregory would teach his masterpiece how the wear the thorned crown properly and he would fill it with all the love that years of eternity would bring.
"Wonderful, absolutely wonderful," Gregory said, walking across the plush carpet towards Ian who sat infront of a keyboard. "You’ve truly inspired me."
The Childe looked at his Sire and only saw a very sad lie that refused to die, even though it has been uncovered. "Thank you. I needs work though. The voices of the monks should be a bit lower; they shouldn’t distract the listener from the beat of the stick against the tree."
"So that is what that was!" Gregory’s voice was a glass of wine teeming with cheerfulness, and Ian was already drunk from last nights binge of praise. As Gregory approached Ian, he lifted his hand to caress the wild hair. "I think everyone will be enthralled. Cladious shall love this and be jealous of me." The Elder Toreador’s eyes became glassy as he lost himself in a fantasy, each stroke through Ian’s hair thickening the layers on his eyes until they shimmered against the light on the ceiling.
Turning off the power to the keyboard, Ian moved his head slightly so that Gregory’s hand slipped onto his shoulder. "I think I’m going to go to the Church." A stone shattered through the glass.
"Ahh.. but you promised we would be having dinner together tonight," Gregory pouted.
"I don’t remember that."
"I do!"
"Well, I’m breaking my promise." Looking into his Sire’s hurt eyes, Ian felt a slight burden on his heart called pity. "I"m sorry, maybe tomorrow night?" "You didn’t even come with me to the Church last night." Gregory was looking down, his handsome face of a man in his thirties mocked by this childish attitude.
"There were things I had to do. That place is … disturbing on Saturday nights."
Gregory seemed to go through a metamorphosis. "You have to get used to them, you do know that."
"No, I don’t." Picking up a well worn Bible, Ian turned his back to Gregory. A tense aura, as though filtered in suddenly through some imaginary vents from above began to fill up the small studio. "I’ll see you tomorrow night, Gregory." Turning, Ian looked at his Sire who stared at him. Like a painting.
Before the blister popped Ian left.
She touched the coolest of flesh and her finger tips tingled as she imagined the man’s creative pith deteriorating her stagnancy and replacing it with a new brilliant fire. Her eyelids fluttered like a flag in the wind, the long sought after merit finally caressing her body as hands molded to her every want. Drowning in the tarn, she could look through the rippled water at the mountain of ingeniousness. Attenuated, her lungs seemed to falter, lips resting upon her’s, as icy as the waters she was submerged in. Bursting, she spoke into his mouth, pleaded with him to release her as a fear of suffocation took hold of her. He would teach her though; she would see, and he would break her down like he had broken others and grind her into a husk of sensation.
Maryanne saw him first perform at an underground club called the Brothel. The show he put on with his band had inhaled her like righteous vacuum sucking up the wicked particles of dust on the carpets of the city. The lyrics he sang demanded her to stop faking. To stop faking what, Maryanne did not know, but she felt the command. Maryanne knew she had been touched, that it was a very special moment and she alone had been picked out from all the others in the crowd to be moved in the way she had been. The scene from the last show proved it.
It was when he looked into her eyes and she felt her knees explode under the gaze of his malice. It was when he seemed to leap into her soul, a farmer tillaging every wretched sense that possessed her and numbed her hope with a scythe of promise. Her mind seemed to become a whirlpool of engagements with greatness, and she was sinking along with them. He was the hand that would pull her from the depths. Driven to tears and the ground she writhed, finally finding the path she needed to walk after the overgrowth that hid it was removed. A path of not mere lust, but a true passion. A desire that surpassed the simple wants of love.
After the show she searched him out, but he seemed to have disappeared. That night Maryanne went home devastated, her whole life the very essence of nothing. It hurt so very much to be nothing. So she vowed to find him again and she had, lounging outside the Brothel by the walls diseased with graffiti.
"There you are," Maryanne said, her voice a murmur, and he could only hear the nervousness, not the words. He looked at her with his crude, intriguing face and she swooned. "I love you," she said stupidly. Oh, you’re so cruel there, she wanted to cry at him. So cruel the way you are looking at me.
The man observed her as though she were just another florescent design on the walls behind him. She was of a medium build with black lace flowing delicately over her curves. A black turtle neck, cut off at the belly covered her body and black jeans, ripped and shred seemed to squeeze the life out of her legs as they were so tight. A face sculptured into the perfect oval, so perfect it was flawed by it’s beauty. Her eyes were partially covered by the long, black dyed bangs, as though in submission.
"I love you too," he said to her.
Maryanne nodded.
"You are very delicate."
Again she just nodded.
"Feel like dropping this hole?"
She nodded thrice and followed him away. Oh please, lead me anywhere.
"You’d suffocate within me," he had said as she pressed herself against him in the alley.
"Oh, no! Please?" she begged and her whole body shuddered under the realization that she had him here. Oh, how she wanted him to split her open like a knife and how she wanted him to taste her, to tell her that she was a delicacy. If anything to just tell her she was worth the taste…
"Aren’t you a bit young?" he asked.
"Oh no, just obsessed." Holding onto the tears desperately, she looked up at him as strongly as she could, but it was just a revolting parody of the attitude she wished to portray. "Just change me, like you promised." You’re so cruel. Oh, so cruel.
She kissed him as a pauper, depraved, and in the need of something true. He kept his promise though and left her breathless in the alley.
Oh, please stop the sifting of dread; stop the current of crimson that mauls my face, breaking the bones of passion down with the fists of anger and anarchy. Persecuted, nailed to the cross, my body aching, bleeding as the lashes of words rupture my sides with vehemence. The damned. Eyes of the purest verdant, orbs bathed in the commitment to destruction, the downfall of morality. Soldiers of the depraved one rising up from their cavities of wretchedness, clothed in the mire of true death. Poxes of iniquity marking the ones they have diseased, trails of immoral acts and the stains of rage now hieroglyphics that few remember or understand. These forgotten acts are to go unforgiven for an eternity so that our Lazarous may feed, corrupt and kill again. Never again…
Judas is in the midst, silently stalking us in the fields. Born from lies, he searches the truths only we can offer. A gluttonous fiend though, plowing and raping the seeds we grow, but he is strapped down with disillusion of rainfall. I would hand him the knowledge but it would only decay at the touch of his intentions and crumble, to become just more sand in the deserts of crisis. Sadly unknowing. Sadly searching like all. Emerging, choking, blind, reaching, touching, feeling the wrong hand. Led astray into the darkness of pain, another malnourished soul lead to the table of Satan, and there to feast upon poisoned food of hate, our poor Judas.
Gather together the Apostles. Enlighten the populous before the evil one strikes again. Be wary, for the walls shall seethe the conversations you speak and transform them into plans of destruction. The faces now are a blur of the masks they were, all to masquerade and violate. The time coming, to bring justice to the unjustified. Through the lyrics of madness and the tunes of expectation, isolation and desire, an elixir of salvation. Sing the gospel, monster of your own incantations. Play your role as the metamorphasis.