Weaving Decadence.

If weaving Beauty, Patterns and Snapshots of the Human Mysterious Soul is her day to day job, once a month…. the Artist needs to blend into the World and touch the Ground.

She knows when her big Night is nearby, since her Studio has become like a Squat and she needs to flee, to compete against the sweet bees for the City’s Nectar.

For the World is jealous of her gift, and keeps nagging her dream job and accusing her from Laziness to being a Parasite.

Off she goes with her biker boots, Chanel Rouge and favourite Leather Bomber Jacket to savour the acidity of the traffic. And yes, she’s going to enjoy her night alone.

Four miles she walks under the reckless rain, no umbrella, no lady bag, letting the tides of savageness take her back and forth to the darkest and most prohibited places of the City.

Time has not a Clock here. The raindrops mark the accelerating Rythm of mediocrity.

Mediocrity that pays for her Bills.

In awe, she watches the languishing souls, hungry for the beauty and passion she delivers everyday.

Some stare at her, some try and kick her, but like a ballerina, she keeps pure and uncontaminated by the city’s dirt.

Jettons placed and jokes exchanged, she has captured the Devils work. She is so grateful she has never asked him a single favour.

Before she realises, she is home, and has no idea where all this cash in her purse came from…. yet she is delighted with it.

Her cat stares at her and is wondering when dinner shall be served to him!

She looks around- needs to do her monthly cleaning and start her new sketches.

She has taken revenge over this aggressive World, and she knows, no matter what, her innocence shall never be snatched again.

Slipping into her Hello Kitty pijamas, she cannot see her reflection in the mirror for she had 3 beers, and drops to sleep excited about the happy ending nightmares she is to experience.

Images of pedestrians crossing the road in the red lights start flashing by, and her new garments await for the next escapade.

The Artist is fed with Decadence, to process and feed the masses…. who pay for the cats food and biker boots.

The End.

The Bogeywoman

20180130_073106They call me Milly and they say I’ve got Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. But that’s all bull shit.

The Bogeywoman often chases me in my nightmares because I am a Genius. Then in the morning I pick up a pencil and stir-fry my Pain into Beauty. Blimin’ beautiful Art I can make. When I look back at my Drawings it freaks me out- “Did I make that?”

 

But when  the Bogeywoman shows up in my nightmares, I am paralysed. My flat turns messy and the cigarettes actually smoke themselves on my lips, one after the other, and I can’t find my pencil. And then when I go out, those Evil people attack me with their eyes, so I have to look for the toilet.

 

But there are no toilets left in London. And I get thirsty.

 

So I get two cans of Coke. Lovely, icy cans of Coke. I keep one of them to leave by my bedside, then shake it before I sleep it and blow it up in the middle of the night on the Bogeywoman’s face.

Look! ACharity Shop. What a nice old Violin in the window. The Coke tastes great. It’s the Real Thing.

 

“You’re not coming again tonight dirty Bogeywoman cos I’m gonna place pins on the bridge you always cross to come get me”. The Lady in the Charity Shop looks at me with chocolate in her eyes. She hands me the Wedding Dress I want to buy.  I show her pictures of my Art on my phone. She is shocked at the Beauty and the chocolate starts dribbling from her eyes.

 

“This is so good.”

So I search in all of my pockets and give her all the cigarette budget money for the week. “The chocolate was worth it”. I think to myself “Cigarettes will have to come down raining from the clouds.”[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

 

Outside the cigarette shop there’s an addict smoking, and he goes and asks me for a cigarette! Sword blades in his eyes. I pretend to answer a call. He’s gone.

 

The cool coffee shop is open and I manage to sneak my way inside, without buying anything, and I sit down.

 

I want the Pain to go on the Paper. Coffee-drinkers are curious about my drawing. It’s a woman doing her punk make-up.

 

Oh no. The fat Security guard.”You need to buy a coffee or get out of the shop”

 

“But I’m disabled”

 

“And I’m Stephen Hawking.”

 

“I’ll buy you a coffee girl!” A tattooed man steps in.

 

“The Bogeywoman is coming to chase me tonight. All night.”

 

As I drink my coffee, the pervert asks “So how many boyfriends do you have?”

 

Shit. I see the old Physics teacher’s eyes in his eyes, and I say ” I didn’t hack the exam answers.” The tattooed man is scared now and moves to another seat, nodding. I take the wedding dress out of the bag, because it’s so delicately soft, I can’t resist the urge. But it crosses my mind that the man will come asking for his coffee back, so I suddenly grab my stuff and leave.

I’m shaking the can of Coke on my way back and relish on the thought of blowing the Bogeywoman’s face.

 

Once the drawing’s finished, I post it on Instagram. The wedding dress is really tight in the chest. I need cigarettes and I’m scared of going out. The tattoo man might be there. So I recycle my dogends. The Bogeywoman hates it when I do this.

As I’m smoking in front of the mirror I accidentally kick my old, misplaced shades. Excellent! I say to myself. I’ll wear them tomorrow and nobody will look at me with Chilli in their eyes!

 

After searching among the mess and clutter and bad and good memories, I find a twenty quid note. Leaving the mess as it is, I go to the Newsagent to get cigarettes. But the guy just takes my Twenty and says he’s keeping it because I owe him thirty-five.

I show him my drawing and he agrees to hand me a pack of  cigarettes in exchange. I am so happy and I feel clever, sexy and talented. Cigarettes never tasted so good. Divine plant.

 

I fall asleep not thinking about the Bogeywoman, but luckily I had placed the Coke in the right place.

 

Alerts on Facebook wake me up. There’s Coke all over the bedsheets and floor: the Bogeywoman has visited again. “Milly! Somebody’s selling your drawing online for 900 Pounds! You better start watching what you do!”

 

I don’t care. I just want a cigarette.

 

The End.

 

More Humour here.