Continuing the “saga” of The Poetry Brothel, in this second article we will talk about, the so-called “poetry whores”.
In the previous article, I said that they remind me of a book series written by Darren Shan, about a freak show which mixes the abnormal with the paranormal.
I wrote about the management and presented those who are in charge of the Poetry Brothel, but alike within every society, the masses mentalities shape the wellbeing of that community, regardless of politicians.
My point is, every project you conceived, was conceived in vain if you don’t have valuable people with whom to make it a reality.
Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, I present you, the poetry whores:
Known as “Penny Strange” she was born in an orange grove within the foothills of Mount Diablo, comprehending the power and knowledge of the Universe once and forgetting all about it, a moment later. (Kind of sends me to think about “Full Metal Alchemist’s” gate of truth).
She survives only on whiskey and burgers with arugula and lemon, bathing only in moon milk. All the world’s lost keys, dance on a chain framing her neck.
Penny Strange cannot sleep until the moon vines blossom and she uses purple tulip’s blood as ink. She is a chemist and the only fight she’s ever had was with a palm-reader on a rooftop in Brooklyn. Her cat, Oskar is fluent in everyone’s tongues.
Has been born 15 separate times and roams around eternal life, which he gained by moving his soul within the bodies of others. Each face buried by centuries runs through his veins and pen. After 906 years, the only things which were not touched by ephemerality were ink and gold, his two true loves. He’s forgotten the taste of food and the voices he speaks are kept within masks.
In the night when she was born, a star shot white-hot through the skies of May and fell into her mother’s womb. While her father, the butcher handled knives and the waged death against life, his wife waged her own intergalactic war, a bet on life against death. The fever almost took them both, the mother and the child, but on a frozen day, the heat gave way. The soul of a star born in the body of a girl, a child who was not mean for this world.
When “Ynga” for short, was a young girl, discreet and naive, a travel photographer arrived in her village.
The braves of the young spent their nights creeping over to the photographer’s tent, posing bright, before klieg lights were ducked under the shade.
Ynga, suspicious, at first just watched “Come on,” they cajoled. “You won’t like what will happen,” said she. “Just try it,” they wheedled. The photographer concurred. “Come, dear. Take a picture.”
So she too took her place before the lens. “Stand still,” the photographer barked, grown crisp with success. “I will,” said Yngvildr. Her eyes met the man’s through the camera glass. For a second, he shivered. Then all was dust.
Mavi is the flower of a passionate union between an Ottoman sultan and his harem queen. She grew up drinking jasmine tea and playing hide-and-seek among marble columns and bougainvillea. Mavi followed in her mother’s footsteps, learning the art of seduction along with her reading, writing, and arithmetic.
At the age of 16, she was sent across the Bosphorus to Paris, where she began taking Kir Royale along with her opium pipe and became the model and muse for a Swedish ex-pat nearly thrice her age.
Mavi collects words and stories in a glass jar under her bed, which she weaves into Stinging Nettle cordage every night. It is said that her words make the blood run hot in the hearts and nether-regions of men and women alike.
Cal the Alchemist
Cal came from a small town close to the Canadian border and due to his affinity for “bigger things” the townsfolk sent him away when he was 13.
He studied under a traveling alchemist, selling cures for everything from lady troubles to clubfoot. Full of aspirations and feeling chafed under the overly scientific Dr. Sharrick, Cal joined a traveling circus to fund his own alchemic studies.
Cal’s aspirations are turning vulgar into beautiful, the mundane to the divine.
Dr. Pepper has an insatiable love for all things that go pop or can be swallowed. He is prone to bouts of distraction at the operating table. He’ll open you up and show you what you’ve got inside.
Genevieve Des Etoiles
Genevieve is a courtesan from 19th century France. At the prime of her life, she met the man of her dreams – a handsome young woodworker with eyes as blue as the ocean at night. He crafted her beautiful boxes made of Malaysian Mahogany in which she showed her most precious perfumes and love potions. The two planned to buy a boat and sail across the world, never letting their feet touch the horrible, cruel earth again.
One fateful night, during a thunderstorm she returned home and found one of her patrons jealous of her love. He placed a curse on her and she was murdered that night – drowned by him in her own bathtub.
On the hundred-year anniversary of her death, Thomas Edison invented a ghost machine that brought her back to life. Now she roams the streets of New York, looking for her long-lost love, hoping he has been reincarnated too.
Has the smallest wrists.
Louise was born on a ship crossing the Atlantic from a quiet town off the coast of Ireland. Perpetually seasick, Llewellyn’s mother couldn’t read books to her, so she made up stories instead, but died of consumption before ever arriving in America.
She found independence an easier state of mind to maintain than anything involving anybody else for longer than a few hours at a time. She found out she had a powerful but chaotic talent for magic, enchanting animals to attack when someone upset her and conjuring thunderstorms when turned on.
Raised by bedouins during the height of the Ottoman Empire, she who is now Jyanavar left her camp one evening in search of the sabi star, the desert rose. She carried the bouquet back to her tent, squeezing the stems into a brass ampoule as she walked. What poison she would glean from beauty’s sap, and oh, how her arrows thirsted for the taste of Shadow. Those spindly hunters had chased her with lions’ jaws and rattlesnakes, smoke and howl. They were real, she swore. Her father never believed it, dragging her to the coast where a ship waited.
Jyanavar knew nightfall was the cleanest time to escape a shadow. She walked the catclaw plank and dropped into the sea like a sacrifice or a burden. If she’d had a map, her fall would have been marked by the phrase: “Here be monsters.” And monsters there were.
Comes from a prosperous home a mile off the road in wooded New England. She feels deeply rooted in proper etiquette, books, and black ink illustrations. She has a penchant for men and women who couldn’t care less about what people think of them. She adores brawlers, drinkers, and musicians. She doesn’t like being told no.
I wonder if they will ever come to Romania, but I think they won’t, not in the near future at least, because people wouldn’t understand. We’re fighting too many battles within petty mundane existence to be able to enjoy a show made by The Poetry Brothel.
However, one day I’m hoping to get a plane ticket in a place where they will be and take some photographs so I can forever keep them in my altered memory.
Stay tuned for the next article.
Latest posts by Alexandra Crisbășan (see all)
- Brain Records by Alexandra Crisbășan (LXVIII) - October 1, 2017
- Brain Records by Alexandra Crisbășan (LXVII) - September 9, 2017
- Dăm startul la Bucharest Photo Week 2017 pe 11 septembrie! - September 8, 2017