It’s difficult to do what I do,
dressing and posing,
undraping and artistically exposing,
this gilt image I have of you.
Of course this reality doesn’t exist
not in anyplace but my mind.
Even there I know never, ever would I be your kind,
but the heart and art are just too hard to resist.
So I write these icons of you sometimes,
even though they give only me a thrill.
The Madonna’s not some sexual hill
I’ll ever surmount with my limp rhymes.
Scandalous words, I must admit,
but they keep me warm at night,
when prayers and meditation cannot fight
these feelings I should never permit.
And so here I am, naked again it seems,
casting words from my body to yours.
Your Iconographer, fallen to old scurrilous lures,
become the Pornographer of his new dreams.
I know. A really jinky rhyme scheme to go along with a possibly kinky theme. But these days I only go with whatever flow I can get from this bloodless stone in my chest, this husk of a soul with which I’m left, and hope that I won’t hate myself too much when it’s done. And because I don’t feel so lost while I’m writing, no matter if it’s iconography or pornography, I hope it never is.
By the way, my art history teacher from 40-odd years ago taught me that true icons are said to be “written,” not painted of otherwise artistically crafted. So…yeah.