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Black glove on the mantelpiece, my fingers know you well. Between the six inch Jesus figurine and the old moon-faced clock you lie, silent and still after use. Your creases show that you have gripped things, that you have wielded things with a purpose, and you are more shiny than you used to be. When I stare at your form my memories are awash with scarlet patterns.
Tonight was a good night. When I softly closed the door behind myself and the chill of the night air flared my nostrils, I knew something special was on the cards. I ghosted through the fog-bound streets seeing the pale faces, hearing the familiar voices: wh*re's beckoning me down alleyways with the promise of sordid favour; beggars and urchins pleading for scraps. I ignored them all, as I always do. Encourage a stink and you'll get a stench - that's what my father used to say.
It wasn't long before I arrived at the bridge which spanned the river, and as usual I paused.... it was a matter of routine, even superstition. The plink-plonk of the water below reminded me of so many things. Dark things. Fantastic things. Beautiful things. I am lucky man.
Onward to my destination I strode. As usual I tipped my hat to the policeman standing on the corner of Segwell Lane; he was as stern and seriously courteous as ever. I marched through the Argus Arch avoiding the scowling eyes of the so-called high class working girls; they never utter a word to me, their pretty little heads know only too well they won't get one penny out of my pocket. Then came the left turn at the Grimmel's curiosity shop, its darkened window full of the same old jumble and tat. Until slowly, beneath that unusually red street lamp, I descended the thirteen steps and was there, home from home. At last I could truly play with the flesh of a woman; or a man; or if fortune shone her light on me, a boy or a girl.
I founded this place, you know, with a little financial assistance from my Freemason connections. When my father died and my mother remarried, we took my step father's surname - Sickart. He was a great man. A man of vision and daring. He introduced me to so many new ideas. He had the uncanny knack of throwing away fascinating thoughts during everyday conversation. I remember him making fun of his name:
"Imagine if I was really a Sick Artist," he said. "Imagine if I actually used human tissue to paint pictures. Blood, giblets, excretment! Oh what a Sick Artist I'd be! Just imagine. Mister Sickart does Sick Art! Ha-har!"
He was joking, but I thought his curious vision was genius. For years I toyed with the notion of creating art using human juices, until one day by sheer chance my macabre imaginings became real. A young boy, bedraggled and lost, stumbled into the backyard of my home. He was deaf and dumb, and would not respond to anything I said or gestured his way. In a fit of frustration I struck him. He began to cry and scream, unleashing a hideous gargle like a cat being strangled. Huh, like a cat being strangled.... Well that's what I did. I choked the breath out of the little runaway with one hand. He was dead in a matter of seconds. My pandora's box clicked open.
That is how it began, and now I am a master of my craft. I have apprentices: a dedicated brotherhood of painters who follow and practice my artistic method - the "Sickart Method". The blood-soaked work hanging in this dark and secret gallery will be famous one day, or should I say infamous, notorious, feared and revered. A fresh corpse, a large canvas, and a single black glove: that is all we need to create our wonders.
Tonight was a good night. Withers brought us a most delightful live specimen: a girl of sixteen years, some homeless stray he'd plucked from the streets. She was as pretty as a picture. Need I say that we turned her into a masterpiece.
-
Comments/criticism welcome
Tonight was a good night. When I softly closed the door behind myself and the chill of the night air flared my nostrils, I knew something special was on the cards. I ghosted through the fog-bound streets seeing the pale faces, hearing the familiar voices: wh*re's beckoning me down alleyways with the promise of sordid favour; beggars and urchins pleading for scraps. I ignored them all, as I always do. Encourage a stink and you'll get a stench - that's what my father used to say.
It wasn't long before I arrived at the bridge which spanned the river, and as usual I paused.... it was a matter of routine, even superstition. The plink-plonk of the water below reminded me of so many things. Dark things. Fantastic things. Beautiful things. I am lucky man.
Onward to my destination I strode. As usual I tipped my hat to the policeman standing on the corner of Segwell Lane; he was as stern and seriously courteous as ever. I marched through the Argus Arch avoiding the scowling eyes of the so-called high class working girls; they never utter a word to me, their pretty little heads know only too well they won't get one penny out of my pocket. Then came the left turn at the Grimmel's curiosity shop, its darkened window full of the same old jumble and tat. Until slowly, beneath that unusually red street lamp, I descended the thirteen steps and was there, home from home. At last I could truly play with the flesh of a woman; or a man; or if fortune shone her light on me, a boy or a girl.
I founded this place, you know, with a little financial assistance from my Freemason connections. When my father died and my mother remarried, we took my step father's surname - Sickart. He was a great man. A man of vision and daring. He introduced me to so many new ideas. He had the uncanny knack of throwing away fascinating thoughts during everyday conversation. I remember him making fun of his name:
"Imagine if I was really a Sick Artist," he said. "Imagine if I actually used human tissue to paint pictures. Blood, giblets, excretment! Oh what a Sick Artist I'd be! Just imagine. Mister Sickart does Sick Art! Ha-har!"
He was joking, but I thought his curious vision was genius. For years I toyed with the notion of creating art using human juices, until one day by sheer chance my macabre imaginings became real. A young boy, bedraggled and lost, stumbled into the backyard of my home. He was deaf and dumb, and would not respond to anything I said or gestured his way. In a fit of frustration I struck him. He began to cry and scream, unleashing a hideous gargle like a cat being strangled. Huh, like a cat being strangled.... Well that's what I did. I choked the breath out of the little runaway with one hand. He was dead in a matter of seconds. My pandora's box clicked open.
That is how it began, and now I am a master of my craft. I have apprentices: a dedicated brotherhood of painters who follow and practice my artistic method - the "Sickart Method". The blood-soaked work hanging in this dark and secret gallery will be famous one day, or should I say infamous, notorious, feared and revered. A fresh corpse, a large canvas, and a single black glove: that is all we need to create our wonders.
Tonight was a good night. Withers brought us a most delightful live specimen: a girl of sixteen years, some homeless stray he'd plucked from the streets. She was as pretty as a picture. Need I say that we turned her into a masterpiece.
-
Comments/criticism welcome
Page:
I liked it. Had a nice period feel to it.
Although it does make me wonder how your head works.
Although it does make me wonder how your head works.
Black glove on the mantelpiece, my fingers know you well. Between the six inch Jesus figurine and the old moon-faced clock you lie, silent and still after use. Your creases show that you have gripped things, that you have wielded things with a purpose, and you are more shiny than you used to be. When I stare at your form my memories are awash with scarlet patterns.
Tonight was a good night. When I softly closed the door behind myself and the chill of the night air flared my nostrils, I knew something special was on the cards. I ghosted through the fog-bound streets seeing the pale faces, hearing the familiar voices: wh*re's beckoning me down alleyways with the promise of sordid favour; beggars and urchins pleading for scraps. I ignored them all, as I always do. Encourage a stink and you'll get a stench - that's what my father used to say.
It wasn't long before I arrived at the bridge which spanned the river, and as usual I paused.... it was a matter of routine, even superstition. The plink-plonk of the water below reminded me of so many things. Dark things. Fantastic things. Beautiful things. I am lucky man.
Onward to my destination I strode. As usual I tipped my hat to the policeman standing on the corner of Segwell Lane; he was as stern and seriously courteous as ever. I marched through the Argus Arch avoiding the scowling eyes of the so-called high class working girls; they never utter a word to me, their pretty little heads know only too well they won't get one penny out of my pocket. Then came the left turn at the Grimmel's curiosity shop, its darkened window full of the same old jumble and tat. Until slowly, beneath that unusually red street lamp, I descended the thirteen steps and was there, home from home. At last I could truly play with the flesh of a woman; or a man; or if fortune shone her light on me, a boy or a girl.
I founded this place, you know, with a little financial assistance from my Freemason connections. When my father died and my mother remarried, we took my step father's surname - Sickart. He was a great man. A man of vision and daring. He introduced me to so many new ideas. He had the uncanny knack of throwing away fascinating thoughts during everyday conversation. I remember him making fun of his name:
"Imagine if I was really a Sick Artist," he said. "Imagine if I actually used human tissue to paint pictures. Blood, giblets, excretment! Oh what a Sick Artist I'd be! Just imagine. Mister Sickart does Sick Art! Ha-har!"
He was joking, but I thought his curious vision was genius. For years I toyed with the notion of creating art using human juices, until one day by sheer chance my macabre imaginings became real. A young boy, bedraggled and lost, stumbled into the backyard of my home. He was deaf and dumb, and would not respond to anything I said or gestured his way. In a fit of frustration I struck him. He began to cry and scream, unleashing a hideous gargle like a cat being strangled. Huh, like a cat being strangled.... Well that's what I did. I choked the breath out of the little runaway with one hand. He was dead in a matter of seconds. My pandora's box clicked open.
That is how it began, and now I am a master of my craft. I have apprentices: a dedicated brotherhood of painters who follow and practice my artistic method - the "Sickart Method". The blood-soaked work hanging in this dark and secret gallery will be famous one day, or should I say infamous, notorious, feared and revered. A fresh corpse, a large canvas, and a single black glove: that is all we need to create our wonders.
Tonight was a good night. Withers brought us a most delightful live specimen: a girl of sixteen years, some homeless stray he'd plucked from the streets. She was as pretty as a picture. Need I say that we turned her into a masterpiece.
-
Comments/criticism welcome
Tonight was a good night. When I softly closed the door behind myself and the chill of the night air flared my nostrils, I knew something special was on the cards. I ghosted through the fog-bound streets seeing the pale faces, hearing the familiar voices: wh*re's beckoning me down alleyways with the promise of sordid favour; beggars and urchins pleading for scraps. I ignored them all, as I always do. Encourage a stink and you'll get a stench - that's what my father used to say.
It wasn't long before I arrived at the bridge which spanned the river, and as usual I paused.... it was a matter of routine, even superstition. The plink-plonk of the water below reminded me of so many things. Dark things. Fantastic things. Beautiful things. I am lucky man.
Onward to my destination I strode. As usual I tipped my hat to the policeman standing on the corner of Segwell Lane; he was as stern and seriously courteous as ever. I marched through the Argus Arch avoiding the scowling eyes of the so-called high class working girls; they never utter a word to me, their pretty little heads know only too well they won't get one penny out of my pocket. Then came the left turn at the Grimmel's curiosity shop, its darkened window full of the same old jumble and tat. Until slowly, beneath that unusually red street lamp, I descended the thirteen steps and was there, home from home. At last I could truly play with the flesh of a woman; or a man; or if fortune shone her light on me, a boy or a girl.
I founded this place, you know, with a little financial assistance from my Freemason connections. When my father died and my mother remarried, we took my step father's surname - Sickart. He was a great man. A man of vision and daring. He introduced me to so many new ideas. He had the uncanny knack of throwing away fascinating thoughts during everyday conversation. I remember him making fun of his name:
"Imagine if I was really a Sick Artist," he said. "Imagine if I actually used human tissue to paint pictures. Blood, giblets, excretment! Oh what a Sick Artist I'd be! Just imagine. Mister Sickart does Sick Art! Ha-har!"
He was joking, but I thought his curious vision was genius. For years I toyed with the notion of creating art using human juices, until one day by sheer chance my macabre imaginings became real. A young boy, bedraggled and lost, stumbled into the backyard of my home. He was deaf and dumb, and would not respond to anything I said or gestured his way. In a fit of frustration I struck him. He began to cry and scream, unleashing a hideous gargle like a cat being strangled. Huh, like a cat being strangled.... Well that's what I did. I choked the breath out of the little runaway with one hand. He was dead in a matter of seconds. My pandora's box clicked open.
That is how it began, and now I am a master of my craft. I have apprentices: a dedicated brotherhood of painters who follow and practice my artistic method - the "Sickart Method". The blood-soaked work hanging in this dark and secret gallery will be famous one day, or should I say infamous, notorious, feared and revered. A fresh corpse, a large canvas, and a single black glove: that is all we need to create our wonders.
Tonight was a good night. Withers brought us a most delightful live specimen: a girl of sixteen years, some homeless stray he'd plucked from the streets. She was as pretty as a picture. Need I say that we turned her into a masterpiece.
-
Comments/criticism welcome
Page: