Anatomy of Art

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.

by Haemophiliac...

... finished 9th June 2009.

I am consumed by thoughts of Death.
Rolling hills crumble,
A Reaper unearthed under each one,
Angels and Demons prepare for battle
A divided world, the line drawn through me.
Oceans cry once more for Egypt's sons
Their blue, red, like the crimson sun.
Birds drown one by one, in the setting sky
Till only vultures remain,
Prophesising their own good tidings.
What good is a grave, no one will attend
An entire world, no more than dirt and water?
An entire life, but a collection of moments
So many caste away, worthless to their owners.
Yet the Pious and Fallen battle on
For each and every one,
Without a care.
What is another man's death, until it is mine?
His Angel is his guardian, a stranger
His Devils afflict me, only until I posses them.
Each heart with its dagger,
What is a church without a graveyard?
Each cup with its poison, passion overflowing
The taste of her blood, so sweet.
What life is spent living
If not in pursuit of something?
No more hills rise in worship,
Rolling clouds descend
The light that remained
Sheathed forever.
No more than flesh I crave,
As tears feed oceans, at our own expense.
The vultures sit waiting
For her to leave me worthless.
So short a time we exist
And still the necessity for murder.
I hear music in the thunder, until the crescendo.
Through art I breathe
Her body is my sculpture,
Each shaping carefully felt
Till the hands lie bleeding.
Each note rests easy, the melody conducts through me.
My fingernails lie embedded in her flesh
From love itself, was birthed torture.
Seraphs descend
For the final hour,
Legions rise
In defence of pleasure.
What beauty do those know
That kneel in prostration?
I only see their poetry
Because I stand at a distance.
Blades and prayers pierce through me
Amore, amore.
Through shards of stained glass
I see God's glory, the light illuminates within me.
What Cherub would know this?
Cupid my son, why do you betray me?
Too late for Scripture
Already immersed in Revelations.
I whisper in tongues,
Again and again,
I love you.

by Haemophiliac...
...finished 05/05/09

A Magician in the Court of Inconsequence though no Magic Exists

They would have me bring
Great accolades,
Another’s recognition,
Before reading my pain.
They tell me, to prove worthy
In the court of ignorance,
Before they are able
To themselves judge my worth.
Someone to vouch
For my tears,
My flesh,
My blood.
Come back a man,
You are just a boy,
And no child
Should have a voice.
For prestige
I must come equipped
With prestige
Itself.
Who is anyone
To judge my pain,
When they have never seen
Through my eyes?
They can f*ck their awards,
And not because I fear
I am unworthy,
Their judgment is useless.
What more does an artist need
Than a muse
And love, love, love in abundance.
They brush of sorrow,
The colour of veins diluted with spirit,
The canvas of life itself,
And a heart able to break, again and again?
What more do I need
Than a woman and a scythe,
The world, it’s joys
And sorrows?
Music aplenty, for those
Willing to listen,
To see, to be,
To die.
Only in death,
Is any life complete,
So to with love,
Poetry is only heard in tragedies.
What accolades do I need
From all those dying around me,
When one day she’ll read my words
And weep?

By Haemophiliac…
Finished 16/04/2009

A Budless Bloom

Time and no time at all,
Too often and never enough.
A lifetime spent,
With a woman’s taste on the tongue,
Never lifetime enough,
Even one woman, a woman too much.
Depravity, they accuse me of
But I am only human,
No longer the youth I once was,
Not depravity enough.
A woman, one woman
They say I obsess,
A lifetime lost in one journey,
What do they know of obsession?

By Haemophiliac…
...finished 14/04/09.

Sleeping Beauty

In an age
When not even dreams
Dare to exist,
Where romanticism
Cowers behind
Ever grey clouds,
The sun, no longer ablaze
For those that remain looking
At an evening rose,
What a sight to see
A sleeping beauty,
Surreal in her own existence.
At a time
When no one
Would dream a dream,
Per chance I see
Amongst life so practically real,
You sleeping that way.

By Haemophiliac…
finished 12/04/2009

Written watching a woman sleeping in the far corner of Starbucks on Oxford Street.

Mor Karbasi & the Midnight Streets

Today I discovered something beautiful. Why I’m gifted such moments I’ll never know. Darkness, light rains, the last surviving blossoms, and jasmine in the air. I swear by my broken heart and humanity’s plea, by warm tears traversing the stories embedded in my face, that there is no God. But if I should be wrong, of the lost, the damned, it is in real beauty that I see apparitions of the divine visage. Nothing transcends all limitations like the overwhelming sense of a ripple through a soul that I claim doesn’t exist. Why is it that I am one of a few, blessed with eyes that see the luminescence of true beauty?

Finished 11/04/2009.
Inspired by Mor Karbasi.

Death

I left one night
In search of Death,
Tired
Of waiting.
“To be a rock
And not to roll”,
Words without meaning,
I thought?
To be watched,
Prisoners in our own lives,
Shells, time and no time at all,
Save in anticipation.
I left, knife in hand
Exhausted faith
Steely resolve,
Fearless through terrorization.
What is it to grow old
And watch our pain
Live on
Through the fruits we bear?
To wait, for Love
For God, for Faith
To wait, and wait…
I wait no more.
With the comfort of a vagabond
I searched the cobbled streets
For proof of life…
To be.
When the cold steel
Pierced me, deep into my flesh
As the colour ran from me, even veins no more blue,
I saw what I came to see.
An irony then, comical even
That at such a moment
Comes the realisation, that once tasted
True love, is bittersweet.

By Haemophiliac…
finished 31/03/2009