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Once, years ago, I got drunk in Bavaria. While there I made these self-portraits:
All the ticks of England
sleeping really soft
in the deep grass nest
say “wu”
take a break belling tolling boy
the glory of god is in the sickly pigeon
that one who shits upon your gate
and murmurs right through lent
Sunshine slithers down my shins
towards my non-socks
to rest upon
my non-delusional hairy toes
Misty mannered
priests and pals
sip pints and pints
in evening, Old Victoria
Roland Weisman’s messy coffee table:
Joshu dances with
Zecariah’s daughter
in dampening mist
and subtle comfort
Once, years ago, I spent some quiet time in strange apartment, 75018, 19 Rue Labat, Paris (the blue door). While there I made these self-portraits:
The pumpkin tree
feels find today
buying groceries
from boulangerie