Thigh deep in the swamp of forgetting
you believe you have found the Eden snake,
the flute of the infinite, the heavenly pump.
and you choke and blow and stroke
toward the surrender of the second coming.
You do not remember your own body,
how holy and precious your breasts and tail,
and so you reach out to contaminate the innocent
in the name of the holy
you desecrate desire and are a coward of love.
Art and Poem by clinock.
Red Priest. H.9″ x W.7″ x D.7″. Acrylic stain on fired clay.
She has been with me for a very long time, winged animal woman, keeper of the sacred heart, protector of the veil, moonlight jungle hunter, card reader and fire dancer
Her mystery lingers in the air…lilacs, burning leaves, holy copal, sun touched skin, ocean salt on the tongue
This image is a single breath in her eternity, caught and released. The next breath and the next she is not this at all, or this,
or this, or this
I can never know her, and yet, she is all my life.
Gypsy Priestess. 18×14. Acrylic on paper on panel. By clinock
Hungry ghost,
insatiable spirit,
I would free you first
amongst many if I could,
release you from your struggle
for relief and escape,
but you are mired so deep
in your painful longings
I cannot reach you.
Hungry ghost,
never satiated,
always searching, wild eyed
for the soothing elixir
that will fill the emptiness inside.
Tasting this and drinking that,
inhaling green and golden brown
mists of pleasure and illusion
to alleviate your loneliness.
Hungry ghost,
stripping the beauty of what is
with beaks of desire
to find fulfillment in what isn’t.
Hunting through nature and time
for more than is given.
Feeding on dreams
while the nurture of life waits
untouched around you.
Hungry ghost,
I would free me of you
and you of me,
exorcize these cravings
for the imagined, the untrue,
with chants of love
and a final act of will
dissolving these yearnings,
these haunted addictions
into clear mountain water.
painting and poem by clinock.
Aching to be clothed
in warm flesh again,
feeling it tight and smooth
against muscle and bone.
Hating this cold nakedness,
exposed to the core.
Waiting beyond time
for another skin to slide across
this osseous frame,
liquid, soft and trembling,
smelling of sun,
a fitting sensuality
once so tenderly touched
by a lover’s hands.
It is desires such as these
that binds a spirit
to this physical plane
of sweat and body,
this glistening intimacy.
Under the chill September sun
I deadhead the hydrangeas
and geraniums with shining
secateurs.
The withered blossoms fall
into my hand
and soon enough the foliage
will follow, dropping,
brown and wrinkled
onto the palm of earth,
and the garden will become
a murmuration of skeletons
waiting for new growth
to golden on their surfaces.
It is not so easy to face
this bone racked spirit in my night.
Its rattling visage is not pretty
and its pleading cries
come howling through my dreams.
I peer beneath desires
it breathes,
beneath its mask of dying,
into an endless nightmare
of longing,
reaching to be whole again,
refusing to accept
the flaying of time,
the peeling away
of the surfaces of care,
layer by layer
until there is nowhere else to go
except the beauty of the armature
flying free, released.
And you, my haunting,
whipping my heart
with cold filaments of silence.
It hurts, but you are freed now
and covered
by the bleeding veils of love.
mixed media painting and poem by clinock
Cracked and whispering,
smeared
across frayed and faded
veils of memory,
dissolving
fractured interstices
of stained days,
the one alone,
lost.
Loss and paradox
chime
dried bones in dank tunnels
beneath a burning bridge
where bright darkness
casts an eye,
staring down my soul,
stirring my cells
translucent.
Intimate spirit
trapped,
struggling for escape
but chained
to rusting remnants
and luminous ice,
a nameless shadow
craving release,
freedom
to be loved into
tree skin,
sleeping rocks and gulls,
wolf and worm,
petal and seed.
To enter floods and dust,
and the rising moon.
To let go.
Transcend.
Mixed media painting and poem by clinock.
Full moon rising,
your red dress ripped,
my arms and legs torn
by brambles,
cyphers of blood
writing our story.
Deep orange
flooding through veins.
Volcanic passage
erupting
across forests
in which we lay down.
Lunatics,
our bodies gone,
lost to the full moon,
unable to breath,
struggling
to hold on to us.
Deep power
pouring from night.
The stars are singing
through our reaching flesh
as we touch
the trembling sky.
We are lost
with the lost moths,
battering their wings
against the burning
illusion
of eternal light.
Moon image courtesy of Google Images. / Poem by clinock.
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