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“You've lead me to a stream

that cannot be crossed

but at the bank of desire I yield and your stone skips across me to leave your trace

forever for awhile


your love will pass

though your touch

like the stone sinks into memory even nowand never will it be swept away for every flood that will come quickly with the winter”




"For when it's at the door
For when we are empty
For when there's no hello
For when there's no bread in the pantry
For when I am on fire
For when your eyes spoke of war
For when I had nothing more to bury
Because I was afraid to love
Or again

Or that I just wanted
you to fly..."





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"2 Mai
Il fait mauvais temps...

The cities pass on these evening trains like a dream...
weeks now since that wordless night.
Ou est votre soldat maintenant?

Verona - Trieste - Munich - Vienna - Prague...

We all have our reasons for leaving.
You've now given me my own..."




"Teach me to read
in the garden of blood asters
as night draws the dreams
of the lazy dead
to the canopy of our fingers”


Into White

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"what you never told him
he knows

what you told me
will remain


till the beauty
in us runs out
or we no longer care"


and you pulled me through the avalanche...

through that summer
Your voice
like a chorus of trees
burning in winter"

In Incendia

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"Cicero in exile
and hearts led blind to the killing shed
in this long long season of dying
written and written again the staying of the blade
that never falls yet hangs damocles and taunting
as her pen carves "soon...soon..."


The smallest of bigger than an inch or two. 

The detritus of the art process - scraps, tests, forgotten contact sheets, bits, pieces and what remains. 

And (as with all the work) there are no digital elements or processing. Real textures on real (very small) surfaces.


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“Time would draw you sleeping back to the earth
but history will tell of a Light born from your loss.
A root of Jesse springing forth from a bloody sheet..."


In Landscape

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"It was not like before
when the leaves turned over
their season
to days of ice
and men and women
huddled around fires in their rituals
of the dying of days


Scribes etched the minutes
and accounts of winter suppers
in graven ledgers -an unseen history
meticulous in it's uselessness
but recorded nonetheless"



"That some people are prettier in the dark...

but not us."


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