The Third Muse and The Clayworker

The third Muse

The first Muse,
clear-sighted,
free from judgement,
a camera,
captures the model’s face
as Madonna.

The second Muse,
being human,
understands the model
as lover, child
and sister.

The third Muse
demands the clayworker
opens his mind to the place

he keeps hidden, the dark room
locked, blocked yet there,
down the long hallway,
waiting.

Inside this room the clayworker
takes his model
and abuses her
kicks her off a couch
acts a child, spits at her
throws punches, weeps
and presses upon her.

Sex has no boundaries
with this Muse
who creates crevices
in the scrotum and breast
of the clayworker.

Everyone admires the statue

never seeing the model’s bruises.

The third Muse
forces the mind to open that room -
allows the darkness
within to escape, occupy
pride of place
in the clayworker,
allows severing of an ear
alcoholic despair
and the eyes
to see God
in the movements of a tiger.

She must be embraced
with hard cock, never tamed
though claimed,
ridden like a beast
in the early hours
of morning when civilized brain
weakens
so clay
can speak to all of us.

She is destructive
and in her fire
the phoenix rises -
a masterpiece born
in the bloody battles
of the clayworker who
throws tantrums
like a Lenny Bruce on the floor
of a radio station,
chases the flesh like a Marquise
to maim and slay,
drinks or smokes or injects
to escape her clutches
and burns to kiss and fuck her
to death.

The clayworker

            I

Even as my fingers unlace

the dress that keeps your hot flesh
at bay my hands, browned in earth, itch

to mould damp clay.

While my lips kiss your abyss

my tongue tastes your coming screams

for in the morning I shall abandon
your sweet nest and as I wrest

with memory to produce an after-image

of your liquid sensuousness my ears,
lost in creation's delight, shall not hear

your voice cry out and my soul,

empty as night, shall devour our final embrace.

So one final time, as my fingers trace

our passing along your white spine,

remember this - do nothing,

nothing, but forget me!

Do nothing but forget me!

Like the ocean's spray,
let me envelop you, let me caress,

excite and elicit
the secret responses hidden

from common view.

I need nothing. I grip nothing.
Everything slips through my fingers.

Do nothing, nothing, but forget me,

for though my hands work miracles

the promises I whisper in my need

are as binding as daisy chains

while your hindsight reproaches

wreck havoc upon my innocence.

I seek nothing - the discipline is to listen.
The clay sings - the dream is revealed.

            II

Everything passes through me!

I am nothing.

I take everything.
I slip into ancient warmth

to discover your secrets.
I see into your pain, make it mine.
I feel your heat beat, match it, change it,
lead it down sodden paths once hidden from all.

There is no safety, no logical progression,

no calm expression, there is only this,

this tempestuous unearthing,
this explosion of fragments and hidden meanings,
this collision of myths and insights

as muscles and tendons
lose conscious direction, strip back the layers
to reveal visions –

the melting pot is stirred to action.

                        III

Each tired movement struggles against

the growing current
as thick reeds catch hold, threaten

to drag me under - only the clay brings relief!

Only the clay’s touch succours me!

Thoughts unbound fly in the face of protection -
a hard, wet slap to force clay into shape.
Thoughts fill my hands, fingers stab the clay,
become sharp knives to slice the morals

off stiff upper lips and hypocritical redemptions.

I am not redeemable!
I float, lost and passionately angry, in the space
between acts inconceivable. I caress,

I force, I manipulate and the clay breathes,

exists in shimmering propinquity to that which is!

Sometimes my ecstasy dominates, a storm,

a raging wind rending roots and leaves impenetrable

as I struggle to find an escape from the fire

that burns deep inside my chest - then beware! Beware!

For though my flesh may seek your embrace
my thoughts lie elsewhere and my hands,

as they dip into your lavic heat,

already ache for the clay's cool touch.

I need nothing.

I grip nothing.

I take everything.

While my words seduce

my eyes appraise;
I take what lies hidden

and follow the inspiration.

                                    IV

Sometimes I long for you.

Sometimes I even love you
but darkly, secretly, sometimes

I wish badly for you
and my fingers wriggle like snakes

spitting venom in The Gorgon's hair,

seeking a return to the clay’s lair.

I wish you begone!

Begone from this time and place!

I wish more, less, difference!

But only sometimes...

Sometimes I gentle flesh,

I caress and softly seek the recesses of delight.

Sometimes I erupt
to rend a vision physically unto existence.

Come my sweetling,

my sparrow,

my sacrifice,
come seek my arms, my loins,

my embrace.

Discover that though the flesh

may sate
and separate,

the passion that compels us
can invest us with a truth

so vast everyone is touched.