Cormac McCarthy Fashion Week @cmfweek - Tumblr Blog

When all were clothed the fete was swallowed by a splintering darkness leaving naught but a splay of discarded rags and a pungent emptiness.

They looked over their works and they were good. There was nothing left to do but pick through the corpses for anything of value.

A sense of dread filled the air. Palpable and inexplicable, the feeling that their unholy work was almost done.

Burnt line streaking through my guts. Swollen rotted phallus, charred to crisp by blood. A surface to walk on, nothing more.

On came a slew of mangled savages, clad in jeweled hides speckled with the blood and soul of a long forgotten kill.

She was a kaleidoscope of memories born from love, but twisted bastardized and regurgitated, a mockery of the past. The color of kings.

Virginal white as the bride. Inviting and pure and lacking in comprehension of slavering jaws surrounding, dreams of eddies of blood.

War drums sound and death surrounds. Darkness cut and fit to match the burnt coal, the howling widow weeping at my feet, my good work.

Simplicity in and of itself is a virtue. To remove the gyrating lights and colors man-made, from one's self is to see truth in idiocy.

Lapped up in a pool of childhood memories; colors smelling of my mother, excreta, helplessness. The lie my eyes maintain held in check.

Snow covered trees fenced them in, wolves in a cage, children in the pen waiting for slaughter, and a vast frozen waste beyond.

Oil on flesh, cascading and undulating in unnatural forms. Poison and Man blend to a horror we only wish upon lesser beasts.

A skeletal creature, leg bones splayed and shaking barely capable of movement driven forward by a force known only to herself and God.

Draped in hides of God's forgotten children. Those rabid creatures that lift us up to the station we have squandered.

Ballistics from an oncoming armageddon echo across the water as women, bejeweled and poised, tramp forward ignorant of death.

Bells toll for wanton children lost in secret gardens hiding from the light and embraced by the shadows. Their time is come.

That aseptic veneer, that pure-blooded laminate, that elegant glaze. Beneath he sensed an abiding moldering ash.

Cormac McCarthy Fashion Week