[It has been more than a year. I thought I had died, but here I am again, working on what is seemingly another portrait, another incarnation, another idée fixe, and yet everyone knows it is always the same identical boy, the same identical manque d'un manque, and there is no-one really, no-one ever stares at these portraits, at best they'll catch a fleeting glimpse of the canvases while on their way to some other gallery. And they are never the right people anyway.]
My own boy,
I saw you. You were naked. Etherised upon a table. And I wanted you. You were etherised upon a table, bleeding, and yet all I could think about was how much I wanted you, all I could think about was the infinite desirability of your body.
And I said to myself, you are not cindy sherman, she could have been your daughter, and at any rate you are just the curator, you cannot fuck a carcass.
I wanted you, though.
I still do. The decay notwithstanding.