Flowers From Hell
An ode to the lost moments of silence
He lived at the edge of the page, where the ink thins and the empty margins breathe.
A maverick artist, solitary as a frozen lamppost in ivied facundity, he kept company with the philonoetic oneirogen shadows of Felliniesque riposte and the faint perfume of decay that rises from cities after midnight.
His laughter was a private vice, sharp and medicinal, administered first to himself. He loved the world with a bruised devotion, the way one loves a beautiful thing already in ruin.
By day, he walked the pickpocket ridden boulevards like an exile, observing the faux theatre of respectability with a botanist’s eye for poisonous flowers. It wasn’t quite Shitterton, that delightful English town, but it would do. He collected satirical gestures fit for the Squib, hypocrisies, the small violences and “microaggressions” people commit with polite smiles.
At cafés, he listened to the murmur of ichneumous ambition and despair clinking like spoons against porcelain, and he wrote not to belong but to expose the price of belonging. Each sentence was a bloody scalpel, each metaphor a Luciferian relucent mirror held too close.
At night, his room became an umbrose chapel to estrangement. Smoke coiled like a tired angel; the walls leaned in to hear him work.
It was pure duty to create, to embrace the wild prose of inequity, to encroach upon the abyss where rhadamanthine demons and angels intermingled within their fuckery-filled bordellos.
He passed the foreboding dark eglise encroached in shadow, a testament to committing hymnicide, he hummed, mordre la poussière…
He painted words and wrote images, making saints of sanguiferous sinners and clowns of princes.
Perchance, in this desacralised internet age, no applause followed him, only the quiet dignity of having told the truth in a language that sang.
He knew obscurity was not a failure but a climate. In it, the soul keeps its colour.