Wrapped in a heavy overcoat

of herringbone tweed, as if

freezing, he became a recluse.
He had forsaken painting

for drawing and was busy

filling sketchbooks in preparation.
Portrayal of the whores

caused him anguish.

The artist did everything
possible to give his image

the smell of cordite.

The charms of the horrible
intoxicated him. The menace

of his face derived, it seems,

from silent movies.
The strong gaze he turns

on us from his photographs

seduces, possesses and tries to shock.