12 January 2013
And here, on this ghost cold night, A man walks proudly on his birth day, His head held high, statuesque, Smiling bravely, Naked as the day he was born, His chiselled skin an intricate diary;
A tattoo made on every week, of every month, Of every one of his twenty years, Writhes around him, Like a thousand and forty angry, foraging locust; Thirsty, hunting, searching.
The man stops, He finds a church, a room of God And he remains here for a Time, Under an angelic, watching moon Arms outstretched, In crucifix; The silhouette of church, And the radiance of moon, And the tattoos, Communing.
A light snow begins to fall, The man bows his head, whispers amen, And moves on. Shivering religiously, he enters the town, On a late Friday night in January; Revellers, pilgrims to the Lord Alchohol, drown him in mirth and misery.
The man stops, He finds a club, a room of dance And remains here for a Time, Under a glitter ball of angelic mirrors, Reflecting the image of a sinner; A naked man, Arms outstretched, In crucifix; The silhouette of DJ And the radiance of dry ice, And the tattoos, In naked ecstasy.
A slight tap on the shoulder, The man bows his head, whispers amen, And moves on. He crosses a bridge made of iron, He unlocks a back door, Turning the key 1040 times religiously, And walks in to the arms of the Tate Modern.
The man stops, He finds a space, a place of Rest, And remains here forever, Under the angelic shadow of turbine, Propelling the art of A naked man, Arms outstretched , In crucifix; The silhouette of gallery, And the radiance of art, And his tattoos, In naked glory.
In Naked Glory • Opuss № I