Identity and idolatry.

High on the red pills (Oil on canvas).
High on the red pills (Oil on canvas).


Don’t be afraid …
and don’t be a bioche,
or a jackass of all trades.
Can’t you see that I don’t really
want to have sex with you … ?
I want to be loved, and looked up to;
and I sometimes want to “be you”.
Am I searching for identity in
all the “wrong places”? Perhaps,
but the part I dislike the most is that
I will do almost anything to get it:

(“Gaytude”, 2009, Cyberwit publishing.)



Some people long for Spring,
and dream of assuaging the
bitter sores of Winter’s
darkness and solitude with
woodland walks and premature
sojourns to outdoor cafes.
And some people visualize
this year’s perfect garden,
an unusually colorful
palette of vibrant flora
exploding with hopefulness
and lust for living.
Or rather plan exotic
Summer vacations, June
weddings and cozy, social
outings with friends and
loved ones on traditional
holidays in April and May.
But others, like me, spend
year-long winters cuddled up in
blankets next to the fireplace,
reading about “some people”
in novels and romance magazines —
with utmost preoccupation.


responding to the call
of a warm summer night,
the muscled youth surveys the
streets from his oakland stoop
with the vigilance of a vulture.
he soothes the heat
pervading his loins
with beer and cigarettes,
and gyrates to rhythms
from his sony walkman to
intensify his baiting scent.
at the passing of each female,
he extends greetings and suggestion —
lastly to a haughty one who
requests that he kindly ‘drop dead.’
the youth throws a kiss and laughs
in sport and self-defence,
until he spies the adoring stare
of another boy, and yells:
“what are you looking at, faggot?!!”

(from “Collected poems and stories”, 2005, Cyberwit publishing.)



Walking the fine line
between glamour and
sobriety … taking care not
to fall between the
cracks … not to believe
in the darkness of the
daylight alone,
away from the glitter
of champagne cocktail nights,
designer jackets,
tastefully-torn jeans
and uncomfortable shoes.
The music must not stop;
shine the camera on me
just a little bit longer. See:
I am setting the pace,
flaunting a fashion statement.
Synthetic is but a natural
reaction against reality.
Just give me my moment.
A self-made idol;
cliches spat out and
Yes, I could be a star.
What … my name?
I am just part of the
rhythm, the lights are
my melody against the
night of glittering glam.
A torn off piece of
average sparkling
against the annals of
history and the

(Adam Donaldson Powell, “Rapture: endings of space and time”, 2007)

High on the blue pills (Oil on canvas).
High on the blue pills (Oil on canvas).
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