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Damion was not this skin and bones saint. He was not the ascetic he carved himself out to be. He did not exist in a vacuum consuming and being consumed by only art. He was not all these things. And he was not always so painfully sober.
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10000
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Raymond Hunter killed a man in Mexico. It was long ago—before Commander Zero took up arms in Chiapas. Before the Shah had been run off the Peacock Throne. Before even the young Hearst heiress had been retired for good and all from the tabloids. And it t
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300
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Billy Monahan came round the bend across from the brothel, when Thomasius von Bornheim appeared, staggering drunk, quoting lines from the book of revelations, but not revealing anything.“I am a prophet”, von Bornheim cried, “but nobody wants to hear me…
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133163
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The world was a secret, an umbrella for even greater secrets.
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20161311
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they’d been pumping him
with Dilaudid at night,
to adjust his palette for what was
coming, in the soft lamp light he
watched his long fingers sprout pink
caterpillar fuzz, knuckles morphed
into hinges for Monarch butterflies,
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10843
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Postcards of bleak pictoria;
a conjurer of doves tongued to his beak.
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73686
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Yet tenderness resided here
among the canvases,
the tubes of paint, brushes, and candle wax;
the splatters of discarded ideas.
We made love the way people said prayers
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