we used to dream the biggest dreams we used to dream the biggest dreams

Photograph

to a body Never will this body be more beautiful than it is tonight; its tendons hum with vibrant strength and the shadows draw hard lines across its skin. This body has rid itself of boyish youth yet is not aged or worn. It is the body of a man. It is not cut out by weights, drugs, supplements, but shaped by movement, use, pace. As it sits down to write, the tightness of its hamstrings bears witness that this body has never been this fast before, never this strong, never this lithe. It is not a young body, nor is it old. It simply is, at the peak of its power, and it is a marvel. The skin is smooth and even, neither soft or wrinkled, not delicate as marble forms, but hard and slick as a bronze statue. It is not a cultural body, not a sexual body, it is pure function. It does anything that is asked of it, and anything it does alters its shape; torso slightly asymmetrical from favouring the left side, fingertips hardened by cello strings, heels bruised by hard sprints and long runs. You can say it is too short, or too thin, or too white. But you will not convince me. It is beautiful because it is mine, the vehicle that gets me to the world. It is the body of a man.

to a body

Never will this body be more beautiful than it is tonight; its tendons hum with vibrant strength and the shadows draw hard lines across its skin. This body has rid itself of boyish youth yet is not aged or worn. It is the body of a man. It is not cut out by weights, drugs, supplements, but shaped by movement, use, pace. As it sits down to write, the tightness of its hamstrings bears witness that this body has never been this fast before, never this strong, never this lithe. It is not a young body, nor is it old. It simply is, at the peak of its power, and it is a marvel.

The skin is smooth and even, neither soft or wrinkled, not delicate as marble forms, but hard and slick as a bronze statue. It is not a cultural body, not a sexual body, it is pure function. It does anything that is asked of it, and anything it does alters its shape; torso slightly asymmetrical from favouring the left side, fingertips hardened by cello strings, heels bruised by hard sprints and long runs.

You can say it is too short, or too thin, or too white. But you will not convince me.

It is beautiful because it is mine, the vehicle that gets me to the world. It is the body of a man.



June, 2010