Oils on canvas.
She is a running chainsaw thrown into a crowded room.
120 × 450cm
the song i wrote for her:
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Her face… a cold pale reflection. Exquisite. Vile.
cold as a dead sun..
I painted this woman as beautiful, far more lovely than what could be called her real face, i suppose..
after all of it, after such an exhaustion, a corrosive THOROUGHNESS of abuse..
after so long and so long
though the features ARE hers, the beauty that has swollen with is my own. it grew from
in my own hands.
I painted her, because
i will be more than her. i will
I WILL shape what i CHOOSE with my hands.
“The Frail Sisterhood” is an archaic term for prostitution. I… will let you infer from that title what you would.
This… of course…
When the last letter burns; A scar on the flesh of your inner thigh,
a sickness of time.
Flailing but soft and ribs under skin.
Attenuated and flush against ice under water.
Collapsed into itself and fed with colors and selfless fading rage.
Blown out like surf or a candle,
a light bulb a curse or a mind.
A porcelain flinch spattered warm soaked corpulent
Tart and sharp behind her teeth and so bright
And she’s so far less beautiful than the her that I had conceived;
My own memory a scratched cup,
a bent fork.
Each millimeter of skin
It’s own unique flaw coming together and
not making a whole but more pieces.
Fleshy and pallid like a clockwork moon
and will never want her,
from me oh
Licking the life from my fingers
Like life. so like life.
a few more words
You are a princess at christmas time.
You are blood-wine,
You are an endless succession of worlds suspended in time.
You are WONDER to me
You are LUST.
Your flesh your eyes your wounds your mind.
I am breathless before you.
I am dazed.
I am thrilled.
I am PROUD that you are mine.
I will stand beside you.
I will hold your hand.
I WILL love you exquisitely as we boil burn,
make, create and hurt -
Overfilled with our razored lives.
I will forgive you.
I will heal you.
This text fits PRECISELY without a character missing into one text in an old, old, OLD nokia.
The first line i had used in an older poem, though that was slightly different and not TO anyone. the rest was for her heart only.
she replied with ‘ive read some of that before.’
and that was all.
Paul D Robertson