Poem – The Artist

One evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment. And he went forth into the world to look for bronze. For he could only think in bronze.

But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that endureth for Ever.

Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and had set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of the dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth for ever. And in the whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.

And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace, and gave it to the fire.

And out of the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that endureth for Ever he fashioned an image of The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment.

Poem – My Sweetheart The Artist

Painter of pain, she covers 

my kiss-prepped canvas, 

expressing love 

in sensual hues of blue and black, 

intimate greens, 

wrathful reds, and purples 

left by lust-driven lips. 
She’s my ‘Monet of Misery’, 

prodigy of pleasurable agony.

Performance artist behind closed curtains, 

she turns my body into her oeuvre; 

no audience to behold

each stunning stroke.

Claw mark collages adorn my back.

A pink, six-stitch blemish 

hides snakelike in my left eybrow-

brushed on one night with a gifted left elbow 

in a passionate frenzy of her craft.

The heart-shaped, 

singed spot of skin on my abdomen

an artistic aftermath of candle wax sketches. 
Once in a while 

I wouldn’t mind her being 

a little more like Bob Ross: 

gently stroking, dabbing the canvas, 

creating ‘happy little clouds’. 

Poem – The Artist 

In deafening silence she examines

 the portraits of her begoned past, 

surrounding her entity with dark, 

pieces of life lost in every one. 
That what she has painted haunts 

the empty hours late at night, 

that what was sculpted in love, 

now brings forth tears of silver 
Back broken and barely breathing 

I deliver you a matt woven canvas, 

with pallets of joy and happiness 

And brushes of absolute precision 
The artist will paint again, 

It‘s engraved in their way of life, 

paint with your heart, to fix it, 

paint with your mind, to find it. 
Have faith dearest artist, have faith, 

The demons you’ve painted will forgive