Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

XLI. Gloomy Sunday

EXEUNT
Gloomy Sunday
_______________________

1
PRINCE MANOR
Lolita
Vinci, LA
The Sirenʼs Moat
October 31st, 2014
Time: 4:00 AM
_____________________________

     Beauty.

     She found exquisite beauty of the Sirenʼs moat; in the history of its might. The Motherʼs moon cast its light down onto the swelling rills of pitch-black water, with a Hungarian windʼs vengeance – and in the depths of its depravity – she found beauty in the Sirenʼs moat; in the Orderʼs castle on the clouds. A torrid, tragic love affair cast into the stars and the sky. The silky black waters of Prince Manor, they repelled the glow of the Motherʼs moon, refusing to penetrate its lover, Her lover, and after the first betrayal, there was no more. Only omnipotent seduction. Destructive madness. With an inky dress and the Motherʼs moon tugging at Her heartstrings, they danced erotically.

     Beauty was a hellish marriage, with its sinuous whimpers and greedy pleasure and sexual scorn heaven's delight. Her obsidian flower – she cocooned herself into her warmth: a woman dying of thirst, a winter-starved fruit. The Motherʼs moon was the Moatʼs saccharine sister, a Tudor goddess, and her thunderous lust was all They had known. The wetness of their slick bodies, the wild, wanton abandon. In the uninhibited hunger of the darkness, beauty was the primordial storm to come.

     The canonization of the Motherʼs gospel: crepuscular histories of religionʼs ambitious side. The prayers priestesses sang, mouths chalk full of the milk of forbidden love. Beauty was the Motherʼs debauched musings, musings that ruined Her loverʼs chances at a suitor, at a princeling, at a seasoned, politicized man.

     Beauty, in the burdenʼd air, was the Motherʼs meek need for lustful gratification: for the sensual touch of Her lover. Beauty was the villainʼs poison, a weapon of poise and grace and the guileful craft of Artʼs prowess. A manipulative pawn in an everlasting game of chess.

    Beauty was Evil, discerned from the soul and desecrated by the mind, and Evil always controlled the Heavenly Mother of Roman Catholicism – the Orderʼs faith – and her Paramour, Catholicismʼs heretical slave. Beauty was Robin DeMarcus, with a decadent, poetic for the labors of love, and beauty was Lolita Kovačevićʼs submission in the eyes of the Gods, of God, of the Heavenly Mother. Every flick, every divine s*ck, every light gasp, was produced to lavish, to service the Orderʼs heiress. To be beautiful was to be brainless in the Orderʼs court. To be privy to Hungarian politics of the Order of the Dragon. To always flock around the shepherds like mindless sheep; to always be prey, never the predator.

     But Lolita was beautiful, with her smoky Croatian eyes that hungered for diluted light, with the blood of Korean priests in her veins that constructed her shapely body. With locks of ravenʼs black, an Angevin family mark, and an islanderʼs eyes like pale olives, she was beautiful. Beauty was religion, beauty was seduction, beauty was stealth, beauty was Scotlandʼs history, and Hungaryʼs armies, and American breadth that created the machine behind the worldʼs conception. Beauty was power.

     And the higher the mighty rose to power, the further they would fall into the Paramourʼs potent grip.

      That was beauty.

      The glamorous violence behind the Orderʼs glory.