Naked.

Naked.

Naked. The day we enter this life in birth our skin is open to view. Every part of you is ready to be displayed. A smooth yet firm surface. Barrier of protection from the elements. Imperfections can be seen even at the start. There is no where to hide. No sense in humility. Yet we choose to conceal how nature intended us to be.

Bare. Beauty in tragedy. Bare skin beneath sheets of glass. The frail condition of the body out on view. Hands lay far above the head at the ends of extended arms reaching for a savior that wasn’t there. Legs spread from the hostile force of attack. Contusions show the signs of struggle. Face of an angel.

Revealed. Beneath a thin layer of vulnerability the delicate nature of humanity is revealed. Covering the flesh will not deny the true helplessness of the form. There is no hiding. Everything is out on the table. Underneath the thin garments there is the soft armor that we all possess. Flesh is rotting out in the open for everyone to see. Decomposition begins with that very first breath of air.

Exposed. Uncomfortable to watch a nude lay in a room where everyone is clothed. Especially when there isn’t skin visible on anybody else. Poor angel. Small stream of blood trickles down from the left side of her face onto the clear glass surface of the table. Below the frozen moment lays a small stack of out-dated pornographic magazines. The variety you’d find in a 1950’s burlesque house. Betty Page winking with her naughty bits exposed.

Raw. Thousands of tiny receptors hidden beneath the surface to elicit an emotional response to every touch. Enhanced by the senses of smell and taste. Riches found in the textures of human flesh. Lines form to create a smile. Contact brings a feeling of nostalgia. Familiar relived through a sensory experience.

Stripped. The body was undressed before the murder. Strategically moved and placed upon the clear surface so that the killer could see the stripped down version of flesh. A masterpiece for the camera. Up close a disappointment. Beaten. Battered. Bruised. Flash of the bulb carries the weight of the darkened pieces away. Gorgeous flesh captured. Crime scene photos will look more like the images taken from the dirty books beneath the table. According to the forensic specialist the Angel was lying in the same pose of pin-up #25 on page 25 of the magazine open on the coffee table. Angel Pin-up. Sick bastard.

Unprotected. Helpless to the fine edge of a shard of glass. Powerless to prevent the incision of a rusted nail. Susceptible to the burning rays of the sun. Defenseless to the whims of the masochistic human. Branding a logo onto purity. Putting ink into anywhere that will allow. Placing holes in any part or opening that will allow. Piercing the fragile pieces of the body. Needles sliding in and out of the supple dermis.

Shown. Pinup girls were used to the exposure. Once I dated a pretty gal that frequented the modeling circuit. Told me the ins and outs of the situation. A girl might have to do some unforgiveable things to get a little face time on the cover of a nude rag. Seems that there wasn’t much that these girls wouldn’t do to get ahead. Even invite a strange man to their house to get those perfect images. From the looks of things, that’s my guess of the circumstances at hand.

Uncovered. Removing the layers of clothing. One by one peeling away the unnecessary fabrics that cover the true nature of our humanity. Pulling up the layers of skin to discover the muscles and tissue of the anatomy. Bones hold up the framework beneath layers meant to conceal.

Open. Laid out to view. The last time she’ll ever be seen on the cover of a magazine and it happens to be the times. Vultures are outside the door waiting to catch a glimpse of the scene for tomorrow’s headline. Fallen beauty meets bitter end face up exposed to the world and the best line they’ll have is DEAD BEAUTY QUEEN SLAIN IN PORNO SCENE. Tragedy becomes a publicized headline followed by the indiscreet photo. Out in the open. On display for anyone to see and tear apart.

This is new. Kind of? It’s an older idea that came up again. Something reminded me. It was originally something else and now it is this. And for some reason the story reminds me of a close friend of mine who continually tries to open my mind to certain things whenever I see or talk to him. Which I’m pretty open minded so you know if there’s judgment it’s something that I’ve chosen not to understand, something that didn’t end well for me once or twice, or something I’ve yet to try. ‘Won’t know until you try it,’ isn’t always sage advice. Cause some people, well they don’t need to try it, to know ‘that’s not for me.’ But if you are unwilling to try it, you can’t have any judgment either. Your cake and ice cream may not be someone else’s.  Anyhow the idea of being completely naked, bare, revealed and honest makes me think of those conversations. Enjoy. m.