I never knew hell was so colorful.
We stopped by hell last week. Softly trimmed with watery pastels and wrapped in a humid pastiche of palm trees and flowers. Sparsley seasoned with clots of peach neo roman architecture amid the scorched earth of freshly scraped construction sites. Hell is quite the place.
Charon has a lot of competition there. Or maybe the Stygian boatmen have unionized which might explain the variety of watercraft. And what better way to cross the waters which missed Achilles heel than in a dual v8 Donzi cigarette boat?
The spawn of Cerberus sure have shrunk a lot. Must be the heat. And they've withdrawn so deeply into mundaneity as to have only one head. Moreover, they are frequently leashed or sweatered. Blake would be extremely disappointed.
Vast green carpets swaddle the landscape disturbed by the soft hum of golf carts droning about on closely clipped pathways. The heat is vaguely punctuated by cropped swishes and grunts emitted from the damned. What evils they must have commited in some previous life of investment banking, shady real estate deals or stock scams. Condemned to wander around these enormous fields laden with rules and regulations. They deck themselves in torturous seersucker, grating doubleknits and often heavily wrought jewelry, eyes hidden behind toilet seat sized sunglasses. The veal colored lips purse and nostrils flare at the intrusion of pink things, alien to their leathery tan world of wrinkles, club blazers and three drink lunches.
Pools of blue dot the clubhouse periphery, acrid, bleached charged vats of chemicals. The damned circle these pools dawdling with maraschino cherries or tiny umbrellas. Wrinkled and tan. Why is it that people who show so much flesh are so rarely the kind you'd ever want to see?
The heat pervades in dizzying waves, the damned scurrying from clubhouse to fairway to pool. Their eyes empty, gazes averted, air reticent from acknowledging the instrusions of life or future.
I never knew hell was so colorful.
