I am a practitioner of art,
said Alice, oil and canvas
are my daily bread, charcoal
blackens my fingers, darkens
my soul, my dreams are of
*** and men lost, I bed sad
men in my thoughts. My art
keeps me from asylums, takes
me from the doctor’s couch
to the lonely studio, the air
full of fumes and stale food
and my unwashed body.
My mother was a slave to
the kitchen sink, her life spent
in domestic chores, in my father’s
bed, in the worrying times she
popped the pills, drank the
bottles dry. I am the spyer of
secret lovers, my sister’s men
in her double bed, the laughter
and tears in equal measure,
the flowers and bruises all fondly
kept, the split lips and black eyes,
she wore with pleasure. I am
the painter of other’s souls, images
oiled in with the darkest colours,
their features blended with the
darkness of their lives. My brother
sat with his demons, supped with
them in his lonely hours, injected
the nightmare makers with the
addict’s skill, he slept uneasy in
another’s bed, chased by his
demons and women until he died,
a bullet in his head. I listen to Parsifal
on the old Hifi the Wagnerian opera
is my secret drug, my opener of days,
my closer at nights, the background
to my daily arguments and fights.
My father was my only healer, his
loving touches healed my hurts,
stitched my cuts and wounds, he
watered down my temper’s scorns;
he alone shared my soul’s foul deeds,
knew my heartaches, my scars of ***
and doctored my soul’s lack. He was
cornered by the cancer’s hold, its
icy fingers in his bones and skin, its
deadly smell in his breath and flesh
and his parting words were lost in
the final rattle. I am the artist of life’s
dark wars and ancient wounding battle.
