In my vision I’d seen my angel lovingly murder Tao. I’d seen the political slogans written in blood on the wall. I’d heard the woman's laughter and although I had a clear recollection of looking around me, I had seen no one else. Yet all the evidence pointed to the dead man's brother being present. Was there lurking deep inside my subconscious a love that dare not speak it’s name? Ultimately would I find it more erotic to have my life snuffed out by a man? Was this why I bought and hung on the walls of my London apartment Xiyadie's paper cuttings depicting tormented gay desire. Pictures I didn’t dare hang on the walls of my properties back home!
Tag: industrial capitalism