‘Tis perhaps a bromidic expression of affection –

But damn, is it sincere.

Passion purple lines, veins of infection,

Addiction – Can’t wait to see her.

It defies all survivalist logic or science

But that’s how we humans are –

We cling to romance with a bit’a blood of violence

As passion alone doesn’t scar.


Here’s to hoping at least one mark stains forever–

A Souvenir of the memory.


And despite the fact that back-scratches are trite,

(A lil’ bit overdone, and used by everyone)

A feverdream sweats that the painting left in the night

Will on for a few more days run.


Van Gogh couldn’t compare

To the streaks she claws into me.


I’m so caught between thinking it’s tragic, and perfect

That such a masterpiece will fade.

But time will prompt her to inflict

Another ivory midnight painting with lustful shade.


More human – more real –

Than the Moan-a Lisa could be;

The only portrait that I really feel,

As I’m the tapestry.


My lover, the artist,

Her nails, the brush,

Inspiration, a tryst –

Fuck. What a rush.

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