Nick Cave takes Kylie Minogue by the hand and leads her into darkness with a murder ballad.  Her voice is pure sugar ~ honey sweet, and there is something provoking about her innocence.  Contrived or not, it is enough for Nick to invite her to see the roses at the river’s edge ~ all bloody and wild.

     This is what sets Nick apart from most murder balladeers.  Joe’s old lady got caught running around with another man.  The black girl lied about sleeping in the pines.  Kylie’s Elisa Day offered purity and Old Nick got carried away.

     ”All beauty must die,” so says the sociopath who can carry a tune.  A rock to her head ~ a rose between her teeth ~ romanticized misanthropy trumps misogyny.  The spectacle of wild roses in bloom makes it all seem like less of a mess.

Freak.

     Used derogatorily, the label can ostracize and embellish characteristics that might be overlooked by someone with reasonable confidence.

     Ignoring political correctness, it might draw attention to those who fall into the category of divergent stimuli ~ defects in mother nature’s craftsmanship that capture our imagination.

     Of course, there are those who appropriate the term, deserving or not, to place themselves on the outside ~ to inflate the ego through ridicule and derision ~ both better than disinterest ~ “It’s better you hate me than not notice I’m here.”

Amour.

     Too much has been written on the subject.  To keep it relevant and simple, even the ugly need loving.  Defective ~ affectionate ~ self-loathing ~ intimate ~ bound by deformities in light of ubiquitous beauty.

     You might think of such things as you read because this is a book about what it takes ~ about what can be taken ~ about trying to compromise ~ about giving in.

     This is a book about rape and wet fur ~ mutant goldfish ~ death eggs ~ and freak fetish finesse.

     This is a book about two brothers and the tragi-comic spectacle of witnessing one trying to hold the other accountable for selling his soul.

     As a child, I fed on visceral horror.  Most often the destruction targeted feminine flesh ~ women as sheaths ~ pretty places to hide the blades ~ squirming sex on meat hooks.  

     Occasionally, they found control instead of losing it.  Marilyn Chambers with the underarm phallus ~ Frigga’s one-eyed justice ~ a nun with a .45.  Those unpredictable, temporarily unsane women were so savage ~ poison in pretty pills.

     Most of the violence came as a direct response to male aggression ~ oppression ~ exploitation.  

     Once in a while, the women were inherently brutal, but their actions did not appear to be innate.  Rather, they were reactions to male dominance ~ attempts to emulate cruelty or react against it.

     A L’nterieur (Inside) gives us true feminine horror ~ a world in which men are obsolete ~ ineffective ~ mere props for violence.  

     It is about what a woman wants.