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
