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Freitag, 10. Mai 2019

Fantasien zur Nacht (Video + Gedicht): The Love Study of Keith Brighouse with RUBY

Nur zu betrachten, wenn der Besitzer eine Erlaubnis erteilt.
Ask Keith Brighouse



A love study of Keith Brighouse with Ruby
This work is an interpretation of a series of four poems I wrote, of an original five, about the infatuation and obsession of an artist about his muse and his muse's response.



the love study

I. it’s all meat to me

clothes, he claims, are facts best discarded 
a subtle uniform positioning me in time and space 
nakedness is a liberation of the mind (I roll my eyes)
the body can be too temporal and less temple 
more Lucian Freud or Bacon, than Klimt or Renoir 
more plucked chicken than voluptuous feast 
still, I’ve always been the sucker, any port in a storm 
always the thespian, a hollowed out personality 
ready to slot into any new role, any opportunity 
somewhere to nurse my ego, to plan some grand scheme 
something that required me to be someone else 
something that would elevate my status 

with the cold charm of a psychopath 
he ruthlessly exploits my weaknesses 
my need to have my beauty recorded 
he’s as obvious as an erection and just as difficult to resist 
so I allow him to poke around me like a dog 
sniffing round me as though I’m a bitch in heat 
I question my sanity at times like this 
no romantic syrup to sweeten the moment 
just the cold thrill of ice eyes poring over me 
the sense of starring in some cult B movie 
the villain just keeps on coming, coming 
I’m frozen on the edge of panic and need to know 
will I escape before the credits roll 




II. be my Bellmer doll

I recognised a Bellmer doll beneath her clothes
a tumble of hemispheres, clefts and curves
rotund forms which provoke these artist hands
to want to grope, pinch and knead, investigate
my Pygmalion infatuation, focused on nature’s masterpiece
strip the lady bare and grind her with my bachelor
introduce Stendhal’s syndrome to her lexicon
her literate mind, reduced to dyslexic incoherence

but she’s too old to be naïve, too young not to care
of an age where a woman knows her wants and needs
experienced enough to recognise my plagiarism
her head a lingerie drawer of hidden secrets 
their intimate stains etched in her imagination
do the bitter sweet ghosts of yesterday’s loves still haunt
wander through her corridors on lonely nights
and do they still visit her by proxy of her hand

I once read a poem about black lace underwear
how it restrained the poet’s heaving breast
how she ached to be released from their woven network
of roses and briars, tight against her pudendum, her vagina
a wound, longing to be probed by the doubter’s finger
how she longed to be freed by his inconsiderate hand
to be taken roughshod and done with what he will
but aah…that’s just the poet’s feverish imagination

I need to master the locksmith’s practical craft
the skill of removing protections, to go where going is forbidden
the artist’s slight of hand, the unreal world made real
her clothes will be scattered, her body used and abused
(in the nicest possible way of course!)
the consequences of this poem are in her hands
fashioned by my art, my hand introduces the key
will it turn, click and will her door swing open…………..



III. the bull in bull

Picasso’s Minotaur really does stalk this world 
wandering morosely through its labyrinth 
brooding and snorting, it waits in a state of agitation 
sooner or later some ‘she’ will wander by 
disorientated in the dark corridors of his mind 
thus he sees himself, a potent bull, god’s gift 
he will offer her his art as a sign of virility 
like he will offer her his abundance 
which hangs heavy between his legs 
(this he would have her believe) 

for all my gossipy chat, I’m self aware 
dismiss vague notions of being his timeless icon 
I claim higher motives for being here 
I dedicate myself to the arts 
a war correspondent on the frontline 
reporting back anthropological observations 
(this is how I convince myself) 
while to him I am an unreliable ally 
a potential traitor to his cause 
so now and again he seeks a little collaboration

his tactics are versatile, his manoeuvres gentle but probing 
strategy is an art form to be composed like music 
agile and sure footed like dance 
he indulges me in a little distraction 
a little oral jousting, a compliment in my ear 
then with a slight of hand, tries remove my rearguard action 
occasionally I surrender to his interrogation 
spill the beans, as a way of invitation 
an artist’s creativity is relative to his libido 
he really does need to believe, he can conquer this citadel


keithbrighhouse.com

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