Aladdin; 199?/2000? (Not Sure) - Chatham, England / Pirates of Penzance;2001/2002 - United Kingdom Tour / Sunset Boulevard; 2002 - United Kingdom Tour / Les Miserables; 2002 - West End / Phantom of the Opera; 2003/2004 - West End / Les Miserables at Windsor Castle; 2004 - Windsor, United Kingdom /Miss Saigon; 2004/2005 - United Kingdom Tour /Les Miserables; 2005 - West End / Phantom of the Opera;2005-2010 - West End / Love Never Dies; 2010/2011 - West End / Phantom of the Opera; 2012 - London / Les Miserables;2011-2015 - West End / Parade;2016 - Broadway / Secret Garden;2016 - Broadway /Evita; 2016 - Vancouver, Canada / Murder Ballad;2016 - West End / Anastasia; 2017-Present - Broadway
US Marines of the Drum and Bugle Corps, Silent Drill Platoon, and color guard perform during the Sunset Parade at the Marine Corps War Memorial in Arlington, Virginia. Sunset Parades are held every Tuesday during the summer months.
(U.S. Marine Corps photo by Cpl. Tia Dufour, 24 JUN 2014.)
you threw the seed of a perfect beast inside my evening. Mischievous shadows wounded the room in expressionist cuts, but our bed looked like an exception (please note for later: our bed).
A late autumn day was bleeding dead leaves through sunset diagonals. My bones paraded over a raw wooden table. I wanted them immaculate. I am a monster, but of a serious brood. 206 bones, from the femur (far left) to the stapes (far right, fifth row from the top). After all those years they were covered by a soft, thick moss; they were carved with images of bodies, faces, open hands - in the center of the palm, an eye; my bones were the temple of Angkor Vat before the flood; they were the Terramare stilts whence my Bronze Age ancestors saw the sun rising from the Eridanus delta; they were the cylinder homes you inhabited since I came into existence and the Pan flute you will gleefully play after my fall back from existence into the sinusoid bosom of being (something like King Crimson’s Moonchild).
I pulled a leaf tape from the clenched mouth of my fissioned S1 vertebra. Your invitation was barely written on it, but my eyes were microscopes piercing their line of sight through the microspheres of your imagination, of your intention, of your imperscrutabile soon to be and not yet and yes, now. Our reciprocate visions were shuddering. My aged philosophy seemed fraudulent; a frivolous offering due to long forgotten circumstances. I raised my eyes from my navel. There you stood, framed by the door. A silhouette against a blinding backlight.
Yours. Yes, yours.
my bed, 8 1/2° S
August 8th ‘17
my dear p.,
my bed is unmade my hair is uncombed my mind is made up. i can only love you. we melt into one another. i call it disappearing but you call it union. i still hate plurals. i still have a mouth filled with blood. and this time, not because love punched my guts. fangs and brittle knots, sand mills and upside down buddha heads. chaos dripping from the edge of utter insanity. i was one step away from my very own masterpiece. my ‘i am’ viscerally severed from the holes of false prophets to the mouth of a roman angel. mutations and inversed triangles were at hand. my coat was on the floor and it was not fitting me anymore. i had outgrown myself. i only fit in a certain group of people, the ones who rip their eyes and look at car wheels from the sky. i was crying in the back of the bus. i was having strokes on a regular basis and my head was fragmented, like an old computer which cannot load videos anymore.
i am in bloom. my thorns wilted. petals. soft, silk petals. me? yes. my eyes overflowing with honey. for you. you? you. two deranged. one peaceful. and not just soft petals. no. fragrance. a mediterranean breeze in the face of the future. you lay there with your cigarette, with the lights off, with your back turned, hoping that change will not identify you. little did you know. the fingers with which you held your cigarette were stained with paint. your nape was void of kisses. your spine was spiralled with decaying thoughts of optimism. in the age of digital, under the light of a half moon, there you were. smoking quietly. incognito supervisions. there are small earthquakes. imperceptible. the ones which you cannot sense. the ones which not only intiate changes, but also destroy your reality.
your morbid truths. your unbearable silences. your misunderstood parallels. and now, i think of them as stones. as stepping stones. you wanted to die and so did i. the only fantasy worth writing about was decay. i never threw death a dime. you reached your hand out for it, but it chose to wait. our deaths wait there. and here. and everywhere. but time will not devour this fractal image of love. in the light of our past, the mist dissipates. and we are tangled against gravity and laws of morality. against the world. against rationality. against the law. you and me and you again and me. with my wet face in your hand. and a soft line which insinuates a smile.