Bullet Ridden Rain

Words exist because of meaning.  Once you’ve gotten the meaning, you can forget the words.  Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can talk with him?  ~Chuang Tzu 

I’m dressed for a funeral; black suit, white shirt, black tie (Alexander McQueen of course). Kinda’ ironic for someone preoccupied with thoughts of his own mortality. Perhaps working as a coroner has made me a more compassionate human being. Perhaps not. Or indeed, maybe I’ve become a colder person, unconcerned by the trifles and follies of the world. After all, I’ve always had problems with conformity, perhaps the reason why I still hold a degree of contempt for Karate men marching up and down hallways dressed in white pajamas.

No, Gung Fu is my style. A way of expressing the human body in such a way that beauty is resurrected from violence, the way a Phoenix rises from its own ashes.

Someone has scraped the dull grey coating of a pistol to create an overcast day. Dark clouds lace the skies. Not quite ominous, but certainly underlying their puffy exterior, the clouds create an imposing presence. Maybe I’ll get caught out by bullet ridden rain later this afternoon. Or maybe I’ll stay dry. Either way, today, at some stage, I hope beauty and violence will collide.


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