I do not know the anatomy of my art. I am not able to discern the bones of grammar from the flesh of words. The sinews of sentences, from the muscles of paragraphs. I cannot differentiate between the blue emotions of veins or the red passion of arteries. I do not know the anatomy of prose or verse; I am not a doctor of my art. I am but a lover, of the body in its entirety. The science is beyond me - the texts all unread. I have no diploma, an artisan of little, a pauper. I am ignorant amongst luminaries. I love the whole and the uniqueness of each one - as a woman. She is my art – in her, all words are one. A fool in love. Stones on the river of your choosing, amongst pennies tossed away. All wishes unfulfilled, I see them lie beside me. Ignorant in my love, and the only true artist of any kind. Where the ridges of her collarbones meet, clavicles in your texts, is the valley of anticipation – before eyes should meet, and lips gently part. In such a well I cast my hopes, and look up along her neck, almost a whisper. Beyond the cliff of her chin, how many times have I fallen, and towards the oasis of her lips. The nose dissecting east and west, a mirror of symmetry. If I have already made a wish in her well, then let her eyes be an ocean, willingly sea goers chased mermaids to their own deaths. The contours of her body, I've seen through the window of a plane, as I passed in the air on a cloudless day, gazing along her thighs, the moon in the distance, my hunger building to a frenzy. I could go on, but surely one would blush, for I closed my eyes and touched rolling hills, plateaus and ravines, a forest, and longed to plant my seed in fertile soil – a lush green land where two rivers met. In modesty I temper my words. What scientist, doctor, honourable though they may be, have gazed up from their books, and seen you as the gods do, as my ignorance compelled me to – from the skies, amongst the dim stars. I do not know the anatomy of my art, but my heart grows heavy at the thought of a woman, and etched in flesh, are an illiterate man's words, that even the blind can read. Come touch my chest and see. I do not know the anatomy of love, I cannot read or write, but show me a woman, and in the presence of your Moses, like Pharaoh's own blasphemous magicians, and the Fallen Angels of vice, I will create a fountain of love, from which will spring a garden in your name.
