Oil and Mirror on canvas

780mm x 400mm



NZ $650

Poetry on painting


Deep into the smoldering
Red of Sunday
on patched work of stone, crying
he leaned alongside her broken sanity
contemplating the trust
he had placed in her tears
sliding from face to floor
mirror to stone
in glittered trail screaming

Should he have dodged the sequins
the well within her eyes
by the pendulum swing of the moonlight echo
and stolen quietly to his chrome cell
singing tales of the battered road
ballads of love gone awry
or have rested steady
with arms wide open
cushioning the weight
of her embryonic fall

Instead he hid the books
the hand-me-down cellophane poppies
on designer-death dust jackets
sentences to remember
stanzas she would never forget
drinking birthday wine
beyond the asylum walls
sharing tell-tale memories
of past monastery lovers
mimics of madness
something he knew never slept well

Was it just because he recognized her here
baptized in her crucible Eden
his sanctuary of song
that attached him so
her splintered mirror image
and tortured ego shivering
love and flowers falling
plucked only for him
the resurrection kiss
awakened solely
behind safety-glass eyes
and the indigo aura
of this blind man’s Braille caress