Self-portrait of the artist, oil on canvas


In the house of Spoken Word lived a man neglected by time that moaned, made bang noises, and chanted low and monotonous. He found love and killed himself for it. And out of that symbolic suicide manifested a desire for completion and dissolution - the one residing in the other, the whore and the virgin. The fool, I do believe, had summoned up his magic art and spoke passionately, nonsensically, concerning things of a mystical nature. Whilst with each masturbatory holler he grew older, discovered sin, and was sated. There is no sense to it, no sense at all. Yet life is mercifully short, composed of eerie remembrances soon forgot. And love, that haunting mimicry of woman, precipitous and devout, consuming the natural and the unnatural in equal measure.

The artist dwells in the house of spoken word, a castle keep of riotous dysfunction and inbreeding which, nevertheless, allows for the libidinous discharge of positive thought in the stink-hole of over-populated London, that man-trap of human sewage. Man's creativity does not exist in heaven or in hell. Only in malcontents is the betwixt world sufficiently awful that one yearns for 'creatio ex deo' - an escape to God through God. And nothing are we that desire less. We are Man and his love-ghost entwined in Wonderland, limbless, yet perfectly formed in the seventh mansion. This is a dead man's art. Kneel, Phantom, and swallow me whole.