Details:
genre:
location:
Ireland
bio:
In a wasted chance of a maritime town, she festers fitfully with festoons of lovelorn tied around her like syphilis (or at the very least the clap). In her opium den of ragged moth-shatten, Made in Taiwan rugs and synthetic silks, she sulks on a balding chaise longue, recalling the days she rode aboard a gargantuan lion made out of Tibetan gold. When she ruled the countryside with her sideway, heavy-lashed glances and nipple showcasing chiffon. When she infested hapless Red Chiefs with (en)treaties of Fire Water and broken promises til they signed over their lands, their hearts, their legs, arms, heads and even the stones and eagle feathers behind their ears. She wandered aimlessly and with intent, her heart set on the nothingness of everything.
But alas, she went too far in her lustful venturing and woebetide, the Lion and the Witch were taken down by the City of the Dead-Setters, a place with more soliciting whores than the harems of all the sultans of history. They wore cheap gold-plated belts in mockery of The Aphrodite?s glistening gotcha! snare, and their hair was woven of the hair of ugly mountain goats and inbred troll slaves. They wore her down like pygmies, striking with fuchsia-coloured talon spears at a porn-star unicorn. With their stinking shit breaths they heckled, shouting names at her, clawing at her hair, hoping for a taste of true superficial glory. Then they sheared the lion?s mane, parcelling it out like their ancestors/incestors did with slaves? hearts, harvesting the pride, the passion, the gaping, suffocating self-awareness and the stupidity of all those things. The lion dissolved into a gelatinous puddle of gold and slid down a sidewalk drain; a Samson no more, the Age of Dignified Debauchery now at an end. And so, The Aphrodite clambered out of the stinking stomach pit of that deranged den and searched depressing salvation in obscurity (or at the very least, a relatively innocuous seaside town).
There, she so thrashed and throttled her mind that it froze and refused to water the flowers anymore, thus becoming a wretched, barren, and pretty boring if you must know, Tundra. But one day she found a scrap of hope wedged between the inner despairing of her mind and the outside world. The girls from the Chalet School up on St. Chastity hill. She had never noticed them before until she happened to be picking up a dead rat for dinner from the front jungle garden. Through the stalks of snake weeds she spied the girls, in their school uniforms, the skirts hiked up to their sapling-dappled armpits, the sneaky cigarettes sneering conspiratorially from their soft, unused hands. They sighed and giggled and sometimes blatantly, rudely gestured at innocent boys across the street who were still at the stage of thinking that girls were yukky, like the weeds in The Aphrodite?s garden. When they waved suggestively at the passing car of a moustachioed man in his cigar-touting fifties, The Aphrodite knew there was a place for her in this of all places. And all of a sudden she heard a roar, somewhere down the line of miles, of hard but not impossible to fathom fathoms. Before, stimulus had only found Stasis for her but now maybe a mirror image was possible that could show a beauty that was sustainable and palatable. Or at the very least it might keep her busy for a moment or two...
website:
http://www.myspace.com/aphroditelion
