The scratch of ink, the wash of blood,
The breath of lust and love and dust,
A wrap of linen (bed or shroud),
The tomb unlocked, a broken frame.
And past this list: a life in flow.
The fluid stains, forbidden pains,
The cold, external brush of god,
Who whispers to the pen: “breed death”.
And death will come, and you will flood
Your skeletal, yet swollen, grave.
The story of your eye encrusts
Itself, accursed, around your core.
The tale, the book, the heart, the brush.
The dead man, draped across the cloth.
After the artwork by Marina Kanavaki – viewable at:
which was itself inspired by the short story by Georges Bataille.
many thanks to Marina