‘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.