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my stories of self

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fragments of an idyll

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self

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...with dancing moons in my hair...

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The beast behind every eye...

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NEW ARTWORK: He whispered dark senseless thoughts, and I listened.

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NEW ARTWORK: He wore a crown of silver and of blood.

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NEW ARTWORK: dumb angel.

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NEW ARTWORK: he read it in a book.

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and again...

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as is - a filterless portrait...

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selfstare with interlude and following end chapters.

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He drifted - unthinking - through the big system.

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He weighed little if nothing, in the reality of things.

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He was tired and couldn't think straight.

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It was like he was at the bottom of the ocean - sometimes.

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He broke through the wall, he staggered across the room, he lay down on a bed of dead flowers and closed his eyes...

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A knife blade to the cheek. He was ecstatic in stainless steel and grazes. Touch me two times, touch me thrice...

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He was confused by his plastic eye, by his crystal blue stature. He saw, but didn't see. Things mattered, then didn't.

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He spoke in rhythms, through a gentle plastic tongue. His stare was off-centre, his hands fidgeted. He was alone with others.