MODE
I met
the Queen
of the fire ants
down in her tiny chamber
she stung me
into Picasso mode
and then did I
attack them so
ravenously, both
Earth
and Heaven
turning the ether, the soil
into shape into colour
into the green
of your eyes
raw
beating red
of your heart.
OF P
upper case
lower case
I am
linguistically charmed
the Professor of P
versed in the ancient
sacred pleasures
well versed my dear
beyond what
you could believe
this, but not only,
since deft artist too,
surrealist,
modernist, have
such a deep
penchant
for all that is
in mode of
abstract expression
dripping my colours onto
your canvass (much
soaking into)
Picasso
Pollock
when it comes to artistry
when it comes
to technique
my
darling darling darling
I am
so deliciously between
MOSAIC
it was
a shape-
shifter massage
he worked his tattoos
into her skin
she started to feel
the shape of them
serpent-
swirling in her brain
imagine that her whole life so far
could be sloughed like
a coat
of scales
and a new pattern, her pattern
might emerge
turn her into
a splash of
fiery, resonant colour
her own
unspeakably
beautiful mosaic
MASTERPIECE
may your lovers
be beautiful
and not so
beautiful
ordinary
and extraordinary
special and
not so special
artistes erotique
and simple finger
painters
maestros in oil
and those who
watercolour strictly
by numbers
(still somehow
endeavoring
to escape the
proscription to
remain between the lines)
and yet
all will agree
you are
their life’s work, their
masterpiece
they have done their utmost best
to uplift and
sexually
immortalize
COLOURING BOOK
nude
is
my
favourite colour
and by which I am
referring to
mean to
include
every possible
shade
inclusion making
so
must
artistic sense
my
most
beloved
creative
thing
PYGMALION
turns out
you were my Pygmalion
was a statue
your cultivated touch
made me come
very much alive
learnt to
speak
write
poetry too
all for you
restored an
ancient muscle
memory
to every part
ART HAPPENS
art happens
poetry too
you got it all planned
but the page
tells you different
you happened
not on the page yet
but
in the restaurant
your hand
slipping below the table
feeling
for me
and finding
what seems headed
in this hero’s journey
to pretty
exciting
inciting incident
and me
so aroused
art
poetry happening
cannot wait
to scribble it down
STING
a Scorpion woman
Picassoed up to me
all arty tarty
and
strange angled
a Picasso woman
scorpioned
through
and through
said she was some shaman sister
of the Arapaho Nation
(though herself
one part Cree
and three Apache)
which was so baffling, messed
with my concentration
and so I did not see her
reach
into her bag
remove several thick, fiercely-pointed needles
and begin to
tattoo
the entire future of our artistic relationship
across every inch
of my flesh
(such a terrible bargain:
I become her canvass
and she
becomes
my poem
allows me to
write her story)
TALK TALK
poets just talk
they no use in bed
beauty like yours need serious sculpture
fine fine art
a Rodin
really up for it
a Moore
a Miro
a Picasso
a Picasso firing
on all cylinders and
way more Miro
tons of gold-leaf
gallons of finger paint
how else to capture
the intensity and sensuous shape
of your sexuality
how else
to pay it homage, give
it aesthetic justice?
way beyond anything possible
in how you
scheme your
lines
(saucy interplay between those
masculine and
those feminine rhymes)
if not
paint or
alabaster
then let us turn
to
melody, harmony
scale and
chord
Oh the music that we imagine
if you
were orchestra
ascending
descending
ascending again
(as
arpeggio, glissando
the maestro feels you about
to launch
into your solo)
leaving world of words
feeling sad and short
and so far behind
unless
colossus of wit, mandarin
of syllable
announces himself mightily
strides
centre stage, his voice
a whirlwind
and there you are, your body versified
your story
made
universal
stretched out into three acts and
climaxed in denouement
not one
inch of your body
not willing to mean
all it can sing
be
the truth of a
tale realized
it always
(so secretly) wanted
to tell itself
ICE
she is
artistic in
bedadheres to
strict aesthetic principleshence: ice
for her nipplesbefore we
release the
launch codesgo
thermonuclear
Erotic poetry 