The Flying Saint
The saint’s not dead by way of arrows.
pampered by a woman, nurtured.
Arrows do not pin a body to the ground.
But lift a saint through air.

Arrows are his wings.
Next time they use heavy clubs
to mince his body
(for better eucharistic chewing)

You’re not flying now, Saint.
“-Now I’m a clowd of blood
over your heads”
He murmurs.



year 1995. I got to a point where I started shooting wooden arrows to a metal corpse.

Instead of being destroyed, the shape, gutted by arrows, started to grow wings.

model of wood, metal and hemp fabric, photography