No Great Work Of Art Is Ever

The Idea Is There Locked Inside. All You Have To Do Is Remove The Excess Stone.

Led By Long Years To My Last Hours, Too Late, O World, I Know Your Joys For What They Are. You Promise A Peace Which Is Not Yours To Give And The Repose That Dies Before It Is Born. The Years Of Fear And Shame To Which Heaven Now Set A Term, Renew Nothing In Me But The Old Sweet Error In Which, Living Overlong A Man Kills His Soul With No Gain To His Body. I Say And I Know Having Put It To The Proof, That He Has The Better Part In Heaven Whose Death Falls Nearest His Birth.

Already At Sixteen, My Mind Was A Battlefield: My Love Of Pagan Beauty, The Male Nude, At War With My Religious Faith. A Polarity Of Themes And Forms: One Spiritual, The Other Earthly.

Gazing On Beautiful Things Acts On My Soul.

My Beard Towards Heaven, I Feel My Nape Support / The Back Of My Head, I Grow The Breast Of A Harpy / And My Brush As It Drips Continually / Upon My Face, Makes It A Gorgeous Floor.