"Fantasy Art Warrior Women Who Dwell on Animated Faery Pictures & a Lusty Library"

"Fantasy Art Warrior Women Who Dwell on Animated Faery Pictures & Lusty a Library"

I see fantasy art warrior women
goddess art surrounds me
and so...
paintings of women
gothic art
and a lusty library at times
are blended inside my closet
creating animated faery pictures
inside my mind.
Modulated strokes
that invade an angels beating heart
find their way onto empty canvases.
Most times they are not my own
or is that they always are?
I forget or refuse to admit at times.

Met by an ocean of fairies
warriors
lost loves
saints?
Wet sirens pulling down to the bottom
of a lonely sea
innocence
taking the wind of sailors
below the waves that ripple ore.
I hold them in my one free hand.
I then let them go
like breathing
lest they leave me in spirit
without blinking.

I color their breaths with my tongue
stroke their hair with my indulgence
stand by their pain
because it is mine own.
I share their longings
before they erode
hold out for miracles that dwell on unaware surfaces
of our fragile atonement.

I capture them there...
these monsters down the hallway
after a neglected song.
These tunes
these memories
blinded at times
no longer dancing
they have no shoes.
I cry for them
and mine own self as well.
What a pathetic eulogy
painted in as well
muted in color.
I will be sure to mark this uncovered grave.

I am a painter of beautiful women
I see them in the moon
and in the vacancy left behind in the morning.
I paint women
because I am one
not because I lust for their touch
because I lust for their understanding
and thus
the understanding my own being.

Faults that fail on my own expectations
of myself
of who I think I might become
or who I think I am now or past the vail.
My triumphs...
ohh I seek them
to uphold any sense of survival.
As I realize my judgments
met by the beaconing of my calls
I stand and meet the precipice
that reaches beyond the space I thought I could attain.

The rain melts on my skin
the calluses that do indeed erode me
cause me to walk beyond the suffering
as if it never existed.

I wretch
I reject their vision.

I creep down low to the ground
as I humbly meet the maker of my own being.
I form myself
and yet I allow room for myself
to understand that there is indeed more to me
than what I have yet known to be.
There is indeed an outside of me
and there is as well a beyond me.
I wretch at the thought that I might miss it all
because I fall and feel too many times.
I have failed to see that I have wings.

Pray for me.

I strip off my clothes
revel in my frailties
beautiful women in competition
succumb to them
expecting people to notice
interrupted songs without structure
that only I could understand.
And yet...
mirror in hand
I cover me with band aids
lest I go unnoticed by my critical onlookers
looking only for bound hands
and a bloody mouth.

I paint goddess art of beautiful women
sculpt whimsical angels into their souls
animated faery pictures
fantasy art warrior women
and write about mermaids I meet along the way.

21 March 2008
Kathy Ostman-Magnusen

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