words

i am an artist, ask any woman
who has known my carnal heart
and she will tell you,
yes, yes, he is an artist.

she will tell you of my words,
how i described her form,
her eyes like ringed planets,
the curves of her side
like sand dunes touched with silk
that i would often slide down
with my hands and my lips,
around her navel and over her hips,
where i would leave little traces
across the spaces that i had been.

yes, yes, i am an artist,
and so i drew starry nights
and sunflowers on her back
with the brush of my fingers,
almond branches in bloom
and bell lilies in a copper vase,
i would borrow from other artists
to strengthen my work
and i know that were they there
they would have nodded sagely
before turning their eyes
back to that translucent mirror
they each and all had crossed.

yes, yes, he is an artist,
she would say, before unveiling
the horrible artifacts
that all artists carry around
in their worn out pockets,
the madness, the black hearts,
the red eyes and shouting,
the vengeance, the swearing,
the lies and idiot behavior,
the violence so serene and pure
that it may only express itself
through disappointment and fear.

the drinking, nights of drinking,
sitting alone with a glass
and a cigarette stirring trouble
in the substance of the soul,
bottling it and preserving it,
placing it neatly on a shelf
to collect dust and be forgotten
until one evening some months on
it would be recalled and opened
and out would come the horror,
the horror of the artistry,
broken things and spilled drinks,
ugly words thrown at such pretty faces,
crushed hearts and footsteps leading away
back out in to the night
that had been before and would again
until no more nights were made at all.

yes, yes, i am an artist,
i mix the apollonian with the dionysian
and carry around this amalgamous god matter
to make something i can live with,
some essence that keeps back
the monotony and the chaos,
and though from time to time
i slide further upon one end
and back then to the other, i am an artist,
and i will eat my own rabid heart
before i give in to the squalor
of ordinary, everyday splendor.

-S.C. Martinez