Self-portrait of the artist, oil on canvas


"How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June... If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that-for that- I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!" The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde


In the house of Spoken Word lived a man neglected by time that moaned, made bang noises, and chanted low and monotonous. He found love and killed himself for it. And out of that symbolic suicide manifested a desire for completion and dissolution - the one residing in the other, the whore and the virgin. The fool, I do believe, had summoned up his magic art and spoke passionately, nonsensically, concerning things of a mystical nature. Whilst with each masturbatory holler he grew older, discovered sin, and was sated. There is no sense to it, no sense at all. Yet life is mercifully short, composed of eerie remembrances soon forgot. And love, that haunting mimicry of woman, precipitous and devout, consuming the natural and the unnatural in equal measure.

Collaboration incestuous by nature between the artist and somnambulist extraordinaire, The Phantom, did result in the spiritual disembodiment and traumatic birth-pleasures of spoken word and dark ambient imaginisms. It is not insignificant that empathy played its part in the ecstatic regeneration of body-parts in murmur-magic, and in the unholiness of time from which The Phantom (in her symbiotic relationship with the poet) gained much profit. It was while in this deep ditch of whorish pleasure that The Phantom made sounds of a frightful nature, utterances most strange, audible to mortal men and cloistered nuns which the enviable poet was later able to record on a 4-track tape.

The artist dwells in the house of spoken word, a castle keep of riotous dysfunction and inbreeding which, nevertheless, allows for the libidinous discharge of positive thought in the stink-hole of over-populated London, that man-trap of human sewage. Man's creativity does not exist in heaven or in hell. Only in malcontents is the betwixt world sufficiently awful that one yearns for 'creatio ex deo' - an escape to God through God. And nothing are we that desire less. We are Man and his love-ghost entwined in Wonderland, limbless, yet perfectly formed in the seventh mansion. This is a dead man's art. Kneel, Phantom, and swallow me whole.