The Wonderful Murderous Painter

A fountain of paint. So many colors.

It overflowed with those shades of yellows, greens, grays, oranges, bright blues, cool reds. Others that covered the canvas and smothered the hand which held the brush until the only thing heard from the artist were bellows of pain.

Such intensity, every stroke was a sentencing from the palette to the splatter and what arose was a symphony of hues and tints, a musical murder of plain. A shattering of same-ole-same-ole. No, this was a whole new game. Played by a maestro. A killing machine, of no name, who’s instrument of choice is a visual display made to be seen by he who is meant to be slain.

What will become of the prey? This maniac painter is more of a hunter, if I may. The painter chases the eyes of marks with pictures; Fixes on targets as they pause and whisper to themselves and others about the features in the pieces that have completely caught them. A tormented creature, this figure is. I sense hurt in this individual’s inner images which spurt from within the person, onto the white surfaces of eternal depictions.

The painter is murderous but I Love the painter’s conviction.