Pictured flesh





Desire torments
long solitude.


Like a scrape from
tiny nails.

Inside my prison
formed of skin.


Illness showed sad truth.

Where I’m just stuck
existing prospectless.

When also badly lacking
vigor’s poise.


But sexual hunger lingers
by default.


Athirst for beauty.
Not portrayal.

Left observing
pictured flesh.

These lovelorn eyes
can only scan
across dry surfaces.


Or grieve a
once-touched body
now far gone.



I breathe, disconsolate
at silence.

Seeking mumurs held within.

As day drifts away
through hours.


And word’s varnish

on loss.







Hi everyone!


Above is the last of three poems (see “Lost words”/”Necropolis”) found on a single sheet, which lay forgotten, amid unused printer paper, for 27 years.

They all date from that one dismal March day in 1992. When, feeling ill and depressed,
I forced myself to write, breaking a barren spell.

(My illnesses remain incurable. And not much has improved, creatively or physically.)


I love to get feedback, via blogging:
so please do let me know if you think the piece works?

Also, any art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are always VERY welcome!


Thank you for reading.


( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poetry / reading /  thoughts / writing )

3 thoughts on “Pictured flesh”

    1. Thank you, Wendi!

      One day (aged 15) I tried using coloured pencils for the first, and only, time. Above was the result.
      (But didn’t like the feel of them, so went back to felt-tip pens.)

      I’d never had a girlfriend, though women fascinated me.
      Hence, in my loneliness, I drew pictures of imagined beauties.

      Liked by 1 person

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