A cool, moist wind
Is blowing under a stifling grey sky.
Every day the heat seems
Greater, more oppressive.
It puts me in mind of another day:
Friday the thirteenth.
He entered the building
(and lodged in my memory)
On that night–
Black hair leapt in bold spike from his brow
Dappling to salt and pepper
On his chin.
And the symbol of his adoration
–a black leather collar,
Bound with a lock;
No spikes like the one I wore
That night.
That night:
Friday the thirteenth.
A portrait.
A memory as black and solid
As wrought iron
In a clockwork mass
Of grey matter.
Such works as this
Cannot easily be expunged
From the gallery behind my eyes.

The thought of our lips meeting
Once seemed folly–
But now, as the sweltering skies
Burst forth with storm,
I find longing inside
For the next hello,
The next goodbye.
Each embrace,
Each cigarette:
Another masterpiece
To hang until my last breath.

Affection has stolen into my thoughts
Like a sinister assassin,
Destined to undo
The artists inside:
The sculptors
                    Painters
          Poets
May some day soon
Lie cold on the marble floor
–Victims of circumstance;
The impetus of all the pain worth feeling
An artist’s muse
Called by the bittersweet name
Of love.