Gothic San Francisco

From my trip last week...

The Hangman's Garden

Sadness drips
Not roughly,
Slow
My limbs be damned;
I am consumed
Utterly
With marbleized bones I stand
Poised for the last seduction
The road leads only to Babylon.
Amidst the winding vines
I shall crumble with the stone
Embraced by dust,
Eternally aroused,
But ne'er to rise

Duke of Albion Chapter 4, Part 2

He would buy two chickens, eight bags of sunflower seeds and some twine. Using the twine to attach the chickens to his feet, he would throw the seeds out before their beaks all the way to the country so that they would lack no incentive and carry Peter out to those pastures he so longed to see.
Few would find this a suitable plan, but people so often underestimate the power of chickens. There is nothing more reliable than an animal who will complete his job solely in pursuit of food. Chickens were always famished and, therefore, always loyal.
The ride was undoubtedly rickety but Peter Duke did eventually make it out to the countryside. The air tickled his cheek and invigorated him. The smell of the wild flowers flowing through his nostrils was intoxicating. He wanted ultimate proximity to this tranquility that so often eluded him in the city even though he heartily sought it out. He wanted to stay here.
Nudging his chickens forward, he set out in search of a house. He was determined to achieve his goal and achieve it he would.
After speaking with several realtors in the area (not a single one of which had failed to inquire about his conspicuous stitches) he had finally found a man who pleased him and seemed to understand the type of place Peter was looking for.
Jorie Jarvis was eager to start showing Peter the available houses and insisted they start immediately. Although it was impossible to be sure, it was almost certain that his eagerness stemmed from his belief that Peter was in fact a duke and Jarvis had always wanted to be able to brag that he sold a magnificent house to a man with a title and status.
With a smirk on his face reflecting his pleasure at having a man believe one of his infamously tall tales (something that in the city was a well known and anticipated occurrence), Peter agreed to an immediate tour of the area. But, after all, Peter thought to himself, he was a Duke. Maybe not by title, but certainly by birth. He was Peter Duke was he not? That was obvious, but in his mind, Peter knew he was also a noble of a different, more mainstream sort. He was the Duke of Albion, utterly and entirely. He embodied the land like no other did or ever could, it was written in his face.
Peter saw several houses, all beautiful old things perfectly maintained in every detail, but none of these pleased him. He did not seek perfection. He sought a house that would more closely resemble his mind.
It was towards the end of the day when Jorie Jarvis (ever “Jorie Jarvis” and never simply “Mr. Jarvis“) finally presented to Peter a home that got his hormones working.
The house, a 15th Century estate, was everything he wanted. The walls were dark, smooth, and long dead. The tapestries covering them were musty and faded, but not thread bare. Though ancient, they retained their original glory and they did so naturally, without the help of glass cases.
Peter was intensely aroused by their presence. He bent down, breathing deep and heavy, and inhaled.
The stale scent most smelled (were they to be so overcome for a moment as to press their faces to the ground) was imperceptible to Peter Duke; he smelled Nobility.
It was a smell only a madman or genius would recognize. This strange mélange of dirt, sword metal, silken fabric, powder, sapphire, wine, enamel, and leather.
Peter adored this scent. He often found it in his volumes, elegantly dusted onto the corner of a page that he would press to his face and sniff. Or in his clothing, specifically top hats, the very capsules for cranial perfumery. The frequency of these encounters was dying, however, becoming more and more rare. And yet here was an entire house filled with this smell, and all for him! He was overcome with elation.

Who Knows

We crawl through the night, clinging to our own irrationalizations. You shiver as the Wind of Pain floats by on her dutiful path. I love the regard she leaves smeared across your features. You look every bit the madman and it excites me to no end. Closing your eyes you savor her every scent; the blood she brings, the screams she steals, the fear that is her essence. Your nostrils flare in anticipatory acceptance. So enraptured are we that we do not think to follow her. But there- she is gone! Where are the children’s cries now? Evaporated. Your slimy grin fades away, and your attention is returned to me. Your teeth are bared, your anger apparent, but, Prince of Dragons, shall we not trace the scent of that which we have lost? I hunger for our adventure! Guide me through the channels of this endless night; you alone know the righteous path while I scour, afraid, in the corner of Darkness. Release my hopes, release the dreams, replace them with the promise of death.

New Nugget!

Introducing my new baby guinea pig, Charlotte Tinkerbell!

Duke of Albion Chapter 4, Part 1

Chapter 4
Classical Trash and Country Living

Waking only after at least two days of incoherence, Duke finally regained control of his corpse-like form and was able to rise.

Legs still tender from the other day’s dose of Beethoven and stitches pulling at sore, dry skin, Peter made his slow and careful way to the bathroom for a shower.
He knew not what time it was nor did he care. He had desperately needed a good rest and now, having accomplished his most basic and dire task, he was free to resume his unique existence.
Although it was not often, this tragic youth did in fact work. Knowing from an early age that he would be unable to adapt to a normal occupation and understanding that he would be inheriting all the funds he would ever need, Peter set his attentions on book dealing.
While he did buy and sell nearly every major work known to man, he was simply unable to leave some editions as they were. The books would call to him, taunt him, dare him to deface their valued pages and, being a dutiful man, Peter would complete their desires.
Caring not a hitch for relics of the past, he drew pictures of drunkards in Dickens’ epics, carved holes in Hugo’s yarns, and stored several small bugs he’d squashed in an incredibly rare edition of Maldoror, staining the pages with insect bile.
Not feeling particularly productive on this day, he neglected the pile of notes atop his desk representing different bids for his treasures and instead decided that it would do him good to take a trip into the countryside.
He hoped the fresh air would soothe the burning from the thread holding his form together and remove some of the horror from his mind.
His was a twisted hope, and one that required much planning. Getting to the country would be an issue since he believed trains to be vessels intent on capturing his soul for harvest with all the other cretins of the world.
He could walk, but it would be a very long journey at best and he might risk tearing a stitch free, so he settled on finding another mode of transport.
After several minutes of mental wandering, Peter Duke found his answer. It was in fact so simple that he could not believe even the tiny amount of time it took for him to invent it.

Duke of Albion Chapter 3

Chapter 3
Back in the Grind

After a lengthy selection process, Peter settled on a pair of leather boots that he fancied and trudged back to the spot where he had agreed to meet his other half who arrived from the café at precisely the same second.
Both lads were tired by this point due to the extensive loss of blood that occurs when one is missing a complete section of their body, but were nonetheless thrilled to see each other. Separately observing himself, he decided to head straight to a hospital and place his fate in the hands of a doctor who would be able to remedy his condition. Finding a surgeon capable of this Humpty-Dumpty procedure he had deemed necessary was no problem and Peter soon found himself whole once again and on his way back to his musty flat.
The stitches that ran down his front and back were somewhat of a nuisance since they stretched not one bit and slowed him down, but he eventually made it home and immediately set to working on his latest obsession.
For several months, Peter had been collecting any small pieces of metal that he happened to find on the street and storing them in a plastic box. By now, he had about 67 bits and pieces of this and that and had but one goal in mind. He desired more than anything in the world to melt the pieces together and create a set of rings for himself.
Taking out the soldering gun he had managed to acquire from his father’s garage several years ago when he still knew who his parents were, he melted, tortured, and carved the piece that most intrigued him into the shape of a simple ring. After verifying that it was the proper size, he marked the outer part with a small X and smiled crookedly at his work.
Jewelry pleased Peter in a way that nothing else was able to. Still holding the soldering gun, he considered taking it to the sheers mounted in his bathroom and destroying them. He was certain that they smelled his fear this morning and had a sickening feeling that they were plotting some kind of corrupt revenge. He’d had enough of blades for the time being and was in no disposition to get more stitches either.
He stood, ready to head into the bathroom, but decided against this as he did need his sharp friends to fight off those birds if ever they decided to return. Return they surely would, especially once they caught the scent of his fresh wounds.
Ravaged, they would come swarming in, and head instantly for his neck. Though their beaks were not sharp, they were quite the bother to Peter since he was still not entirely sure if they were real or not.
He did not like feeling confused or possibly insane, so he would do whatever he could to keep the pests away, and sleep with his sheers, ready to slash, under his pillow. He would have to conquer his fear and have faith in their forgiveness. They would probably be grateful to be free from their restraints and in their state of happiness fail to realize what Peter had thought about them that very morning.
Staring at the new ring on his finger, Duke was hit with memories of his only love. Like everything else he seemed to enjoy, Peter had found his girl in the gutter of a small alley at the complete opposite side of the city while on an outing one afternoon. Do not be fooled into thinking that our noble hero found one equally as insane as he to cherish. This interest of his, while she was real enough to him, was not to others.
She was small enough to fit in his hand and her features ignited something in him that he couldn’t explain. Her vinyl face was dirty from lying on the filthy, wet stones that made up the road, but her blue plastic eyes still contained a powerful glimmer and the look of this tattered and forgotten plaything gave him a feeling he had never before experienced.
Acting on his impulses and not bothering to clean her off, Peter brought the doll back to his flat and deemed one of the chairs hers, placing her upon it. Her slumped, unmoving form continued to delight him for the three years that she occupied her throne until Peter grew angry with her for never contributing anything intelligent to conversations when he hosted parties for the few friends he once had.
Once he turned on La Petite VanyVictoire, as he called her, he was done. She had to be destroyed as soon as possible. He gripped her round the neck, dragged her feather light form out into the putrid and humid air of the city, and tossed her, clear across the street, into the nearest storm drain.
He regretted his action even before Mademoiselle Victoire finished her aerial descent, but what was done was to remain that way. As penance for his folly, he declared that he would never again open his heart to anyone. It had been roughly five years now that she was gone and although he did not want to admit it, Peter knew that she was partly the reason for his continuous journey into the world of the Insane.
Deciding that he needed some slight distraction from his recollections, he pulled himself from his chair and disinterestedly floated over to where he kept his most prized possession.
Having been an avid admirer of music his entire life, but never enjoying the fact that it is not interactive, Peter built a contraption to make it so. Taking the bones of an old record player and haphazardly rearranging them into a manner that fit his purpose, he later attached small cables to the device that were particularly conductive. Through some rigging of his own, he set the creation up so that each individual chord of a song would be physically felt traveling through the wires and directly into his body.
He wanted so terribly to feel the emotion in songs that seemed so empty when heard over a regular system. These lyrical drug injections turned him into a being even more bizarre and depraved than he already was. After the first test and use left his pupils dilated and his tongue dry, Peter decided that he ought to keep at it every day and see if his cranial capacity, or any other physical ability, might improve.
Now, in his sate of reflection and remorse, he wanted nothing more than to block out his thoughts and replace them with pure jolts of raw feeling more enticing than sex.
He selected the record that he knew would not fail to excite him out of his current state. It was dusty and warped from being too often played and left on the machine for weeks at a time but it was no less glorious. This piece, this gem that Peter looked upon as a kind of child since it was something that he created with the same sincerity, was a combination of the concertos of Beethoven and the sounds that wild animals make when dying of starvation.
The howls and cries mixed with the ingenious crescendos of the Master made Peter’s breathing grow heavy and hot. His eyes grew unfocused as he retreated into his mind and began to see fantastical visions of mice taking over the European consulate and enacting their own doctrines (most of which revolving around cheese and dirt) to better the world.
He saw houses deconstructing themselves and the inhabitants being forced to flee to the countryside and seek shelter under rocks and in trees where things were dreary.
As a smile strained against his now white lips, his hands began to tremble with excitement. Falling to the ground and now seeing that which he saw so vividly that his eyes began to burn and tear, a laugh louder than the very noises he was currently blasting into his muscles resonated throughout his flat. The wires were doing their job.
Writhing on the floor at the height of his journey, Peter somehow became aware of a rather odd noise emanating not from his musical invention, but from the street outside.
Quickly tearing the wires free from his now painfully pulsating muscles and wiping the tears from his eyes, he crawled over to his window and poked his head out just enough to observe whatever the event may have been.
Two men were clearly engaged in an argument of some kind and when Peter, already smiling like a mad cat, realized this he immediately scuttled over to his door and dragged himself, legs still incapable of supporting any weight thanks to his electrical session, closer to the scene.
Kneeling in a small black puddle and sweating profusely both from the excitement that had just passed as well as what was to come, he waited patiently for this much anticipated battle to begin.
Peter loved fights above all things. Clenching his hands together in rabid rapture, he let his eyes roam with the now escalating movements of the lads. Oh! How he wished they were beasts! Had this been the case, there’s no telling what he might have seen.
He decided to assign the men animal equals so that he might better profit from his current observations. The slighter of the two had dark hair and fairly scrawny legs which brought a crow greatly to mind. The other was not much larger but had upon his face such a regard of displeasure and anguish that Duke could assign him no other creature but a raccoon.
Savage identities now set, the fight could progress with true purpose and the ever mounting fever within Peter could continue its ascent to his brain and start to pour out of his eyes, drawing the attention that he so often avoided.
When this fever brought on by displays of human nature showed its face, our hero would lose all control of his senses and start on a behavioral journey like no other ever before dreamed of.
As it was, Peter Duke was quivering, laughing, and sweating blood that smelled of stale cigars and cold tea. As much as he wanted to witness this impending row, he could not deny that remaining as a spectator in his condition would quite possibly kill him, and so, reluctantly, he hauled his momentarily useless form back up the stairs to his flat, sprawled on the filthy Oriental rug he so adored, and finally allowed himself to be absorbed by sleep.