Red Priest (renovation art 7)

Red Priest 5Red Priest 1

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.

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fāz/Gypsy Priestess

Gypsy PriestessShe 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

Gypsy Priestess

 

Ghosts – Hungry Ghost

hungrybird

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.

Ghosts – the flayed

FlayedAching 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

Ghosts – the alone

ghost1Cracked 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.

Another Full Moon.

full_moon_dreamsFull 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.

hot tub dance

hot tub

it was

a torrid tango,

intimate touches

in shimmering heat

and cold blue air.

hot tub detail 5

it was

a racing blood

fandango,

a simmering

amniotic rendezvous.

it was

a sizzling cauldron of

salty wet desire,

a full moon

roiling ocean rumba.

hot tub detail 1

it was all

raw lips and basted thighs,

tangled flesh falling apart,

restless limbs losing ground

immersed and drowning.

hot tub detail 7

hot tub detail 9

hot tub detail 10

it was lines forgotten,

identities scrambled

naked, masked, revealed,

dissolved, fragmented,

whole and healed.

hot tub detail 2

and it was hide and seek

and blind man’s bluff

and catch me if you can

with a stiff oar in a feral sea

dipping and thrusting

through oscillating fluids

in a wavering boat

floating, flooding, rising

bodies liquifying,

spurting like whales.

hot tub detail 3

it was a forming and melting,

a mute transfiguration

lost in translation and found

again under sultry layering

of transmogrified faces.

hot tub detail 4

it was always in flux

through shifting perspectives

of steam where nothing was ever

what it seemed

hot tub detail 8

in the hot tub dance.

drawing and poem by clinock

All credits and an admiring thank you to Steven @  http://poemimage.wordpress.com for the idea and inspiration for the design of this post. You are the Master my friend…