The wind has stopped,
the woods are still.
Snowflakes are coming down hard –
like shards of white thunder.

My heartbeat is ticking off
the ebb and flow of my life.

I pull the beast of my manhood
out of its lair.
It lies in my hand flaccid and shrivelled –
a stumpy story of self-reduction.

Slice by slice –
- like tiny bricks of flesh and blood –
I build the shrine of my art.
The mortar of pain
binds the days of agony.

Michelangelo and Leonardo
painted joy and beauty
with keen eyes and bristly brushes.

I sculpt torment.
My blade is dull.