The freaks who Murder Love

I went out one morning. Just after sunset. The grass on the streets needed trimming. Several cars had exploded and the gutters were lined with depressed millionaires. I asked one for some change and she flipped me 20 grand. ‘Thanks.’ I mumbled, and went on to the nearest 7-11. The man working there was wearing a wig that had an astonishing likeness to James Dean. ‘Nice.’ I said to him, but as the place was being held up at the time, he paid me scant attention. He dampened my mood.
I sat outside by the edge of the Princes Highway and watched the trucks colliding as I ate a block of Toblerone. The hard speckled chocolate hurt my tender mouth. I was longing. I thought of my father, and the last time I’d seen him; setting fire to the vestibule in Saint Martin’s college as federal agents dared him not to stop. I missed his positivity, his childish sensibilities. It all seemed a little empty now.
My hands shook. Vultures crowded around me asking for directions. I said the Lord’s prayer. He didn’t say mine. Quickly, and without reserve, I leapt off the face of the Earth.
A billion faces rushed to save me.
The wind bellowed through the willows.
An army of helping hands kissed my body.
All the loving hearts of human history unfolded their feahers before my eyes and the senseless beatific grace of the the good and holy universe burst inside my soul like pomergranate juice.
Then I went directly to hell.
Meet me by the torture rack when you get here.

The freaks who Murder Love


Joined February 2010

  • Artist
  • Artwork Comments 7

Artist's Description

I can’t possibly deal with life if it refuses to play fair.

Artwork Comments

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