Hope your bar is stocked. You'll need it.
Despite the title of the piece below, it has nothing to do with the above painting itself, but with certain emotional realms in my head that are the actual origin of the poem. During mes vacances, I brought it out of stasis, still incomplete, realized that the myth previously illustrated shared some imagery with what I had already written, leafed through my copy of
Cheri Ovid's Heroides -- classic(al) *groan* grist for the romantic mill, as it were -- and made a concerted effort to finish the accursed thing in between bouts of couch potatoing. Et voilà ! Lest this become even more of an intermittent tradition -- hey, it takes work to churn out shit this cryptically maudlin and, well, blue -- it's soon back to humorlessly captioned photos of ridiculous humans and power chord YouTubing, with a few sporting jabs, to boot. Stretch them neck muscles, prospective headbangers. And practice the principle of perfect punnery.
Some who wander are condemned to be lost
among galleries of indifference,
where drowsy waters lap against the light
whose burnt words are painted with vicious care.
A parade of names down fathomless wells –
found beyond long years, written in the bones,
broken on the stone. Whisper remembrance
to seal a bargain in the dark. Watch
seasons devoured, bright choirs silenced.
There is no blood inside, only thousands
of unspoken lines drawing out the last
inscription once carried on your beacon.
A fiery spirit no longer trembles.
Sweetest imperfection brushed into life –
secrets known only to me in repose,
interred in each fluid stroke. Velvet hues
given new beauty, adorned with plucked joys
indulging in the past. Panoramas
in my head. The noonday, flush with color,
dies by my hand, stricken by profane storms
shadowed in your brow. At sunset I cry
before you in a voice falling tired.
This absurd theatre birthed my labors,
hastened struggle’s leap into troubled seas.
Drop by drop sleep comes, drowns pitiful hearts.
The ritual done, you may take your throne
and reign over distant lands. Impress gloom –
an opulent kiss, worthy of a bride,
to purify me – almighty priestess,
prophesy away this plague with one gaze,
live anew an inflamed serenity.
Angels, look upon my face and be shamed.
Pastel dreams plumb the deepest fevers,
illusions, the finest compositions,
to keep the waves from opaque memories
whose vacant tower leads me to perish.