Holy shit, the flowers are vomiting blood.

Holy shit, the flowers are vomiting blood. The daisies have cartoon eyes that are contorted in agony and blood is literally flowing from their mouths. Out of the corner comes a kitten walking upright, wearing full-on metal knight’s gear. Sword and shield and helmet and everything. He’s chopping all of the flowers down and flower-blood is spraying all over him, soaking his fur and staining his armor. He’s screeching and killing. The daisies keep on puking until he cuts them down. At last, as one single vomiting flower is left alive, The kitten-knight drops his sword and falls to all fours. He gives himself a lick-bath and sheds his armor.

Beneath him and off in the corner, the blood is standing inches deep. The soil beneath this all has formed a great big mouth, sucking and slurping at the carnage, swallowing and loving every stalk, petal and stem. The kitten cleans off the last of his fur and stands on his back legs, grabbing his sword and preparing to sever the last standing flower.  The daisy is dry-heaving now, it’s white petals stained totally red. The kitten lifts the sword…

“What do you think?” She asks me, “Isn’t it lovely? I mean when I look at it I can just see that cute little kitten romping through the field and having a good time. It makes me kind of home-sick though. What do you think about it?”  she asks me with her big wide blue eyes. Eyes that are incapable of comprehending the pain she’ll endure in less than two hours. The crowd at the little art gallery is shuffling around us, a small crowd has formed around our little painting of a kitten in a field.

“Well I guess I see the same thing as you, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders at her. No way is this bitch gonna know what I’m really thinking.

“Art’s not really you’re thing is it?” she asks. I imagine her face slit up and disfigured.

“No. Art’s not my thing.”

“Oh sweetie, that’s why I like you. You’ve put up with all of my interests even though they bore you. That’s so sweet!” she says while I picture her with empty eye sockets, black holes with nerves dangling where there ought to be eyes.  “I tell you what, what do you say we go back to my place?”

“I’d like that.” I say.

“Alright then, let’s go.” I take her arm in arm and we walk out of the gallery. On the way out we pass another couple that is staring at a painting of abtract geometric shapes. the woman asks the man “What do you think?” His response: “I think that that circle is trying to fuck that rectangle.”

“Close,” I think to myself. “Close”

~ by thethingswethink on February 6, 2007.