Welcome to the Archive of Declassified Works. Here you may find and read--as they become available (they sometimes get held-up in cryptography)--English translations of Mr. Sark's oeuvre. Early intel shows that he favours rhymed metrical verse as his milieu, but only time (and further reconnaissance) will tell if this is borne out in all of his work.

I traveled 'round the world for you,
To kill you where I could,
To wear your heart upon my sleeve,
And end your life for good.

But, oh, what waste 'twould be to cease,
The heart within your breast,
Which beats a secret rhythm, Love,
And lends my own its rest.


Assassins learn to accept
being reviled by their prey,
huddled doves, ineffectual in their cote;
by superiors, wary headmasters, waiting.
For their own-made
trap to spring and bite
the hand by which it's fed.

Weakness fears ability (like water in the lungs)
drawn-out in pneumonia; immediate
in drowning. And whether pulse is paused
by bullet or garrote wire, we
exist, yet. As necessary evils to blame, walking
dark suits, tailored perfection, as only an undertaker
would notice, dressing a nameless corpse.


Death, my Love; and love, my Death,
are disparate not, though they to the mind appear.
No more divorced than alterations temperate--
As climate shifts within the year.

My Death so cool, my Love so warm,
Though doubtless interchanged--
In Death a lie, in Love a truth
Hold their dichotomy contained.

Your eyes like soul in liquid form,
Your blood like sin congealed,
Love's pain my sole objective:
Death's peace beloveds will reveal,

Us. To be in sand, or snow, well-met cave or peak,
Geography informs our courtship,
And impels me now to speak.

As affection twines with longing,
And fondness takes true root,
You learn me of my purpose,
Ennoble my pursuit.

This, our world, a map of my desire, decoded shows too clear;
That you alone, my sweet-dark deathly Love, do I pursue--
And for you, Death, bitter lovely, persevere.


O, new-born singing blood,
Tortured by its syncopated measure
Which holds, and rests, and lends one leisure
Until such time again will warble
Swirled with grief to signal trouble.

Plasma gluts within a wound
Until the tongue no more makes sound.
And when I gave you back to safety
'Twas an embrace you did reward--
To he you took to be your savior,
And not to he who shift'd your world.

Though now you sleepwalk in
Terror constant, below skin
Where blood doth run
And fear doth stick,

My face remember, my touch recall,
And dread the chewing of your sorrows;
The fleshy gap carved into your gums the single
Signal of all you've lost.


When Eros oft appears to the eye,
Bare-skinned in glorious immodesty,
He deftly strings Cupidic bow,
And straddles such with Love's own arrow.

But can affection sprout and grow,
In temperatures not hot, but well below?
Can such an arrow pierce, and then take root--
Or in a cavern iced are such god-like powers moot?

To love in sun-soaked tropics,
The baser body's needs do beckon,
But to quicken pulse and kindle
Passion? The cold doth naught but lessen.

And yet, I know, 'twas so with us,
For as I sought your frozen death,
At my affect some Cherub took true aim
And bloody, pinned, and staked your claim.

Impalation (as flesh sated) left me spent, inebriated.
Oozing, incapacitated. Seeing, Dearest, you alone,
And though the surgeon claims it
Ice pick, in thigh impacted,
I will know 'twas your desire, survival-bent and cruel,
Which truly, love's recapitulation first exacted.


As though I slumber, you come to me,
All disguise and subtlety.
I, the Dreamer, unadorned,
But you, my Love, alter infinitum.

From your hair to lips, to skin to clothes,
I wonder that I recognize
The flux in which you trawl the globe,
such extremes do you comprise.

Paris. Hair the hue of child's candy floss
Corset leather black as the impasse
That siezed my throat as slow you sang,
Tempting, smoky--ignorant of the Sturm und Drang
Within this chest,
As instead 'twere Khasineau that you caressed.

To your purpose used you he,
Careless of my heart that newly beat
To lock in battle, based in love or intellect--
Sweet, you abandoned me to this new effect.

Which 'til then the Dreamer had not met,
And which now cannot decide if 'twere better to forget.

To lay to rest the thought of you,
The sight and rush with each new
Encounter, where are matched our dual fates,
And Destiny doth braid, in plait,

Of union, anticipate, someday to come,
Where we, coupled, will sleep and die, as one.


Powdered alabaster never so exquisite lay,
than seductively on your cheek today,
Smooth as chalk on blackboard used
to diagram my heart's abuse--
at your hands, strong and slender,
into my service, pressed to render,
at my own request spoken
under duress, this one token:
Employ your wiles to entrance gain,
to knock-out a man once-thought friend.

But in this service I did my own suit dis-,
for 'tis under your sweet touch I'd seek bliss

If only momentary
If only violent, voluntary
If only, had I the strength of will to abandon

All that to which I do aspire
I would glad accept a similar pyre,
on which to burn, under the pressure of
your skilled hands, to take my leisure,
Wrapped in towels as warm as slumber,
Living joys too much to number
Until--wary that you might tire,
Of me, my Love, and that to which I do conspire--
To death's massage, I'd call a cease,
and, hap'ly, end this life upon your kiss.


Crimson, the color of sanguinity
staining yellow suit
(a coward's hue)--As
the melancholera in my heart
did urge me on to stew
you, my Love, down to basest parts.

You (my Love),
caught where you did not belong
as always creeping in to every thought
as acid burns through skin.
I longed to keep you there,
penned, trapped, mewed up in pain,
to watch your defenses peel back
even as your unnanounced
presence dis-robes mine,
repeatedly laying bare--and most unkind,
this black, bilious pump, my heart,
Exposed, crippled by you, and amazed.

And so I wish to have the same effect,
to see you boil, burn and hurt,
As does this my form, this man whom you despise
each time he's caught within your eyes.


Have you learned to understand
the marriage into which you pledged
your self, your life--
like liquid poured
into a cup it does not ken,
yet physics calls it and commands
it seep and fill the cracks,
crevasses, inner space
that sight cannot behold
at first-born glance.

Your death, a bird,
a waking from illness long
and innocence.

A troth you'd plight again,
Sweet? And would you gladly
swear once more and give
same Death's Head your own hand?
To wear the name of which you now despair,
possess that which you'd rather never,
and learn again the dance of hate,
partnering opposites to copulate?


My mother reminds
me of snug time
in cold snow where I
was birthed, and you,
who wears her memory
like a scarf I did not
bid you buy,
a scent I never
thought to smell again,
a blanket of goodness
I could never understand.

You recall me
to my mother; all angles,
strong, unshattered,
breathing the loam
of burial, like air
fresh, met with passions
unknown, to be feared
in her steadiness.


I once had a friend like you--
believed everything--gleefully
swallowed lies like pound cake.

You pour a cup of coffee--
American in its blandness--deliver a
crumbling muffin on a doily--comment
on an article in the Times.

I could crush you--literally and
figuratively--break your jaw, tell
you the truth--torture you for answers
you do not know.
Then she would come.

I could--but not today.
Today you continue--worrying about
inventories, choice of music, a
wedding day that never dawned--
you would've been to die for in white.

Disclaimer:This site is not affiliated in any way with the ABC spy series Alias, or, for that matter, Mr. Sark, whose poetry--until such time as he wishes to make it public--remains unsung, unfeted, and largely unknown.
Contact: Mrs. Sark, the site owner.
This has been a 2002 not-for-profit Ph0tog! Production.
Con Fever: OUTBREAK Witchblade-inspired madness.

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