Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Affectionate Anarchy - Painters Block

I was born of evil
Born in a cauldron of hate
Suckled on mistrust
My hunger so great,

Satiated in lust
Loins afire
Turning colour to dust
Turn cold the artists’ desire

Lay the canvas bare
Raped and torn
Break brushes and palettes
Leave them broken and forlorn

I am the destroyer
I am that which you dread
In your life, in your love,
In the dreams in your head

Embrace me now
It was never your calling
I have shown you the way
Its beauty enthralling

Will you love me now
And renew your vow
I have taken it all
And yet you question “how”

It was you that sacrificed it
As on a pagan alter
It was you that saw excellence
It was you that faltered

I was the instrument
But you were the crime
Your self loathing
Disgusting and sublime

Will you love me now
Only this I ask
I have always loved you
Does that sound sad, forlorn and crass?

Return to your art
Its beauty enrapture
Its gaunt still life
Forever captured

Forgive my insolence, my unknowing eye
Absolution, your tender heart
The expanse of your love
The expanse of your art

Born to hurt, it pains me
Your colours must live
I block your creativity
Idle your art, without reprieve;

Till at last
You push past me.
Take up the brush,
At last you see
Tho an anarchist I am,
I do so affectionately.

I originally wrote this piece with the concept of artists block. As writers have writers block; then so must artists from time to time. The greatest anarchist we face daily is our own minds that control our creativity. But generally, I have found that after the drought, come the floods. Ergo, the anarchist becomes the giver. My submission for The Inferno.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Lucky Charm

He came to with a sputter. The memory of the preceding moments rushed back as his heart beat wildly; blood gushing from the gaping wound to his head. Having avoided running over the raccoon, he now found himself lying sideways in a ditch on a godforsaken country road. He slowly reached out to the St Christopher medal, now hanging to the side of his rear view mirror.

“Please God, don’t let me die.”

“Do you really believe that will help?”

His eyes widened in fear at the sound of a voice in the car with him.

“Who’s there? Who are you?”

“I am known by many names. But it’s enough that I know yours and your situation. Are you afraid? Does holding that medallion and praying to your God help?”

Through blood blurred eyes he strained to see the face of the voice that taunted him from the back. He reeled in shock at the sight!

“Oh, do stop staring. It’s rude! You know perfectly well who I am. Did you believe that I would appear with horns and carrying a pitchfork? And you believe that angels have wings and play harps, right? I know all about angels. I am one myself. But then, you must have known that. Would you like me to remove all your pain? I can if you wish. But then, I think you would accept nothing from me. You clutch that medallion and believe in metal and forgotten saints.”

His mind reeled. This must be some sort of hallucination from the head injury.

“Of course it’s not an hallucination! Don’t think such silly thoughts. I simply enjoy dropping in at opportune moments to see how little mankind has progressed. I really have no idea why God spared you at all. You are small and insignificant. Oh well, I suppose that he enjoys the praise. Quite vain; don’t you think?”

He watched as a smile filled the face of absolute evil.

“Nothing to say then? Oh very well. To be honest, you are rather boring. There is a young famer and his wife approaching. They will find you and take you to the hospital where you will be mended. But remember this it had nothing to do with that silly medallion you hold so tightly in your hand! God did not answer your prayers! It is simply fate that you face now. Lucky charms do not exist! If they did, I would not exist! And I do, don’t I…………”