Why can’t I sleep? I have too much testosterone coursing through me tonight. I feel it shifting in my body telling me to do things. It won’t let me lie still. When I was a young man I had werewolf dreams; I would roam through the night devouring and plundering anything, anyone, I wanted. I… Continue reading Halloween poem
PART 1, HERE | PART 2, HERE | PART 3, HERE | PART 4, HERE While Andrew Lamb was feeling considerably better, he was still unemployed, malnourished and lacking confidence. His routine had changed only slightly: it still consisted of lying in bed too long and staring at items in his bedroom, but he now… Continue reading The shadow of Rudolf Nureyev (Part 5)
PART 1, HERE | PART 2, HERE | PART, 3 HERE Rudolf Nureyev’s shadow had grown sick of being mistaken for a figment of concert-goers’ imaginations—being written off as a trick of the light, or as the result of too much partying—and it had had more than enough of being the unsung muse to a… Continue reading The shadow of Rudolf Nureyev (Part 4)
PART 1, HERE Rudolf Nureyev’s shadow—mesmerised by the kinetic grace of the performers—swayed in time with the music, imitating the dance steps as best it could. After two hours of rapture the rehearsal finished and the dancers began to shuffle out of the studio, saying their goodbyes. Deflated, the shadow allowed itself to be dragged back to… Continue reading The shadow of Rudolf Nureyev (Part 2)
On this rock; round this star; through space and time... I pretend to orbit you— another hurtling speck.
All art is a lie. The truth is far more terrible than any tragedy or horror to be performed before us. Art is a polished shield through which Perseus viewed the Medusa to avoid her petrifying gaze... before lopping her head off for sport. I can only approach you through art... this poem is my polished shield and you are my Medusa, though I would never dare attack you— just gaze in woe at your beauty knowing I can never have you. But even this is not true: the truth is far more terrible again. The truth is bleak; devoid of imagery, and you do not look in my direction.