Bitumen and Oils on canvas 90 Ă— 60cm
I gave this to my girlfriend.
Sinn is her name.
She is an angel.
I wrote on it a distortion of a biblical quote, scratched into the paint the sharp chewed end of a paintbrush -
“Take this as a seal upon thy heart,
as a seal upon thy arm
for love is strong as death.”
I am awed and stunned by wonder and wonder again… I cannot find my breath my words are drowned in the roar of my body’s thunderous, bloody rush. And to -
to have my arms (so wreathed and flush and boiling with desire so weak with want) hold her body hear your heart share your warmth
as she sleeps; the arc of her cheek is the most beauty I have trembled before.., the sweetened exhalation of her breath
skin so real so
warm
and
oh
so soft;
it beggars fine-spun cloud-silk , the touch of any babe be they gentle yet; the lightest lacrimony of warming rain; any and all for ever and only there could be no more than your touch but
no, not the quiescence of flesh
not and never no – there is more not her skin no not
never – there is further grace held hushed beside me. raging fury of will and heat –
the gentleness of her heart, so close to mine as to frighten me.
For her it is conflagration such fierce pride and agony of ardour a desire such DESIRE (a never-seen incandescence to match my own)
Cached in a sudden stillness… a feather caress and she is become an angel of tenderness? How…? is she able to be..?
A warrior born. Her lips Sweetened honey, her mind steel milked from the most sinuous and sensuous of venoms.
Schooled. Mistress to the most lethal of lives…
Wrapped in the flesh of a wildling hart?
We know and wear loss as all must in any life. The extant tragedy (oh my love – she is flooded with wires and strung, and stung, with oceans, of pain). What she has lived is beyond the comprehension of a man as proud of his own survival as familiar with the madness of unending pain as I.
She beauty born from this, some form and weight of gravitas.
Her history is barely visible but tears always fascinating exhilarating that she is what and whom, what she is and still, still
In each step so tired worn and fought and such pain so worn a clutch a fist of years scores and even yet now wearing to bone to mind to scourged worn and won fought again it hurt her I know it must she remembers… she is a soul a life flaring with war deathdealers with atrocity with war war war WAR!
Her body more scar than skin (so soft so alive so soft and mine)
How can it be? Grace hums against her limbs warmed by their touch she is yet delicate… (so soft! her skin her skin! Her scars! Her skin!!)
movements svelte and boiling with latency; it is forever abeyant, utterly implicit in her, in all that she is. Coiled in her is a fell warrior. Such strength, feline yet shivered and silvered with
Fragility
(how? What is she to be this?)
I wish and wish for her hope so it hurts me with my wishes
I wish I
wish
I
if she could use this inferno, the frenzied oceans, the tempest worlds of will so thick in her chest
to
believe
this, oh babe.
oh.
if she would if she will.
I beg for her credulity I offer my hands my works my eyes believe me believe believe!
before she flooded my heart and writ hope across sorrow; before she breathed rapture and tore hope open like this like THIS I did not know I had never begun to see…
She is without equal. Without precedent. She is craving, She is lust, she is
honour.
I need her to know. She must know. She has to believe me why will she not believe me make her believe me
She was my life’s love