Purple Madness

Purple, racing through each vein of blood

taps the passion-points of desire on course

that I am mad with wild-want

of want for you like Spring for flow'rs.

Blooms form 'long the breathe of my lips

flow'ring to smile at rhe smiles of your face

which my hand cups like hot black tea

being sipped with pleasure, English-style.

Your words are filtered steam cov'ring my face with warmth

as your chin hooks my arm closer to your neck.

I speak and laugh with the the madness of want

as you butt your way to my thighs at rest.

Tis a strange purple-passion oozing 'tween us:

respectful play and controlled desire seeking caress

all in the press, the poise, the silent interludes

all a holding-in what the heart knows is true

*Imagination should be a probing into truth, a penetration, not a fabrication of something that we want to believe.

-Gil Bailie

*We live in a world that has calloused our sensibilities, a world where we are bombarded visually, ravaged by stimulation until we can't see or hear or taste or feel or touch anything, and in this world the artist is charged with bringing us to our senses.  This is the sacramental sensibility.

-Gil Bailie

*Rene Girard has said many times that we want to talk about language instead of using it - we have a sort of postmodern hermeneutics of hermeneutics of hermeneutics.  "In the room the women go, talking of Michelangelo" is the condition from which the visual artist must save us, and the great mainstream of art in the twentieth century has abandoned that task.

-Gil Bailie