Haus from the Bast thread:
Vladimir J. Baptiste, Jr., is a phosphorescent seraphim, possessing filament hair, compact disc eyes, porcelain skin and bubble gum lips. His brow is uncreased by worry or doubt; the only wrinkles he might acquire are laugh lines. His clothes are a flatscreen television, cuffed and collared by Simon games, tailored to a lithe frame, yet he walks barefoot an inch above the ground, silent save for the distant sound of windchimes. He steals the children of the conservative right without saying a word; simply his existence is enough to tear open a picture window onto a far more immense and strange world than they've ever been allowed to see. When he does speak, it is on strawberry-scented winds, in ten voices at once, and never the same ten from moment to moment, yet always in exquisite harmony. His works enchant, bewitch, stimulate and evoke; in the face of them, some people laugh with joy, still others weep as they've never allowed themselves to. There's something more Warhol than Warhol about him, something more Dali than Dali, more Burroughs than Burroughs. He is distilled thought made flesh, the purity of which is that which inspired early Christians to simulated cannibalism. Oh, he'll be villified. They'll burn him in effigy, maybe they'll even burn him. But it won't matter, because he'll have grabbed the brass ring, and fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. |
