Who sculptured your waxen skull,
and who handed your undersized
wardrobe in; my outskirt, my un-
dressed mixed mistress?

One slips into a labyrinth along
a tip side of tongue.

One’s got to look it in the eye,
lest time permits.

Who modeled your flaxen mosque,
and who carried your angular lau-
reate on; my wasteland, my waist-
long banned distress?

One sneaks into a studio via
a chaise (V.002) longue.

One’s got to get out of the whole
shit, pieces, bits.

You did, but did not cut the rope
when midlife struck – just added
zest to factory… and single luck.

Who shaped your shield of clay
which crumble will nor fall; did
not immortalize the one this
zeitgeist, once… for all?

M.J.C.A. 15-11-2005