Diary of Dorian Gray

I

People capture everything right? People capture turkeys for their thanks giving dinner. People capture scents so they can smell like roses, tulips but they all stink of retch. But capture of beauty? An imprisonment of god’s beauty. That euphoric glimpse of a scent. Just even an aroma.
I saw, I saw a rebel against the god’s commandment.
Every day, every second I lose that beauty. It crawls away from my pores. I can feel it, and it tickles. But I hate being tickled, it disgusts me. That tension, I feel as if my inners are escaping and my skins are to be left hanging on a coat hanger 2 sizes too small. And I want that coat to be pristine.
I want to be interchangeable.



Blasphemy

Exterior, interior beauty. Blasphemy






Envy

I envy thee who stand still without a blink. I envy the heart that never beats. I envy that lung that never suffocates. I envy that frame and that pastel board and that untouchable splendor. Monet, Renoir and I are different. They created eternal beauty. I am eternal beauty.

Portrait

I was beautiful.


Love

Beautiful it was. She lied, in front of all those people. She said she was Julia McCain. I knew she wasn’t but they believed it. She said she was in love. They believed that too. She cried and they started to tear in morose. The beauty of disguise, she was that blush and powder that covered that big zit on your forehead.
She made the world look beautiful. She covered that blasphemy zit right in front of those grueling ignorant perverted audience.
That guy with a pot belly bigger than the devil’s sin, that bald guy who’s most prized possession was his 3 strand of hair. And all those other’s who I won’t mention because my aching finger isn’t worth mentioning those peasants. They were all in love. They pictured her silky red dress gliding down her fine perky breasts, like a drop 1787 Chateau Laffite (wine) dripping down so gracefully down the body of a crystal wine glass. They pictured their indulged disjointed figured hands, gliding up her snow white thighs, like stepping on the first snow field in the mid December on Fen Dion field. Those disgusting footprints.
I pictured, I pictured her being Cleopatra, St Maria, and even Jesus Christ. I pictured her ruling all over Egypt, then magically giving birth to Jesus Christ himself. Then pictured her writing the Bible itself, and I was beside her all along.
Now that’s love.


Sibyl Vane

The funny thing about love is that it always brings reality along. She said she loved the fact that she can be herself in front of me.
Did she hit her head on a stage pole of something?
Blasphemy I shouted.



Confinement

These days, I feel disgusted. Has my moral value been brought down? I sometimes picture her from the perception of a peasant. I pictured her soft perky breasts tangled in my hands. And her snow white thighs gliding against my snow white thighs. But, every time my imagination painted along the canvas, blob of black paint splattered along my vivid illustration. A thick rope snatched her neck from the back. Her foot twitched like a ballerina.
Pique, pique then a pirouette.
Then I saw a stain of 1787 Chateau Laffite on my shirt.
But then again, it was only my imaginative hallucination.







Beauty

There were creeks running down my arms. I felt it shrivel as my pores opened its way for sunlight. It felt like a black hole sucking in every drop of 1787 Chateau Laffite. I was drunk. An alcoholic. I saw 2 in 1 and I saw ballerinas twirling around my bedroom.
Was I drunk?
Am I drunk?
Drowning in your own saliva, your own blood. How would that feel?
This skin, I want to rip it off.



Portrait

It’s hideous.