My Intended Artistry (MIA)
It’s Sunday, and it’s morning.
You’re sat up at the breakfast bar,
elbows propped, coffee in hand,
legs crossed and bare,
pearly in the breaking light,
a pale, blue button-down does little to cover,
and I too feel exposed with this obvious grin,
not so much ‘staring’ at you
as ‘bathing’,
dabbing at the pinks in your palette,
every bristle coated in your color,
your magic,
and I ready myself to paint a masterpiece,
but stop short.
Head tilted, stepping back.
I lay my wetted brush,
and soak in primal views.
I could never paint a picture
quite as beautiful as you.
Raw
If I could scream
for twenty minutes straight,
I’d still have so much left inside.
I long for love to tear me open,
rip and split the shell that hides
and strangles me till I can’t see.
It burns to even fucking breathe,
cos every word has brakes applied
and sings like stings in both my eyes,
and punches me from inside out,
a hammerfist fights through my chest;
it thumps and roars against the cage,
throws itself against the bars, and whimpers through its rage.
Witness here the ugly side to passionate enaction;
the equal, opposing forcefulness of raw and fierce reaction.
I am the medium
You are poetry.
And to think I nearly mistook you for a muse
when all along you were already written.
All I can do is paraphrase
your rhythm and your rhyme.
Let it breathe
Easy tiger
let it breathe, like wine;
the nose, I’m told, is key,
before your lips and teeth and claws,
before your heart and mind implore
that you embed and bury deep
and sink in deeply fruited sleep
– far down, far down, drink up or drown
or swim the viscous, ruby death,
and with your final, burning breath,
remember this: demise is sweet,
but death by love is still defeat.
Resist the urge, and take your time
to drink your love like fine red wine.
Enter
Don’t hold me back, or dare to slow;
why should I walk when all I want
is to be free of chains, and throw
each part of me at walls to see
if something sticks, and patterns show,
depicting just how fast to go,
or bleed in streaks – the colours speak
to what I must already know;
I cannot tell what love I seek,
but I shan’t enter soft nor weak.
Beady-eyed
‘Tree Frog’ by Candace and Joe Zetter
I am the bead amongst the reeds;
consider this my only warning.
Poised by night, and held till morning.
Stay awhile. Come hide and seek,
leak not a croak, make not a creak.
As you attempt your nightly deeds,
beware the bead amongst the reeds.
I am the fresh, the flush, the mesh
and weave of leaves where you can rest
inside, entwined, in pillars of dew,
where the air comes to settle and the sun slides on through.
Succumb to the rustle. Kick on back and concede,
and pay no attention to the bead in the reeds…
Strut
Untitled, by Saskia Neville
Dress yourself in royal quills
and strut upon the palace walls,
but you won’t fool me with your trills,
cos through it all we hear your squalls.
That’s not to say you don’t look grand,
your colours mesmerise and stun,
but just be careful where you stand,
for in the rain the colours run.
Just threads between
Throw me down, we have the time,
and taste for flushed and salty skin
that simmers as we crawl and climb
upon, beneath, between, within,
and rolls the black and blue of eyes
that match the bruises on her thighs,
reminding me to treat her gentle,
hold her down and drive her mental,
clasp and press and wrap and writhe
and nestle as the gasp subsides,
till all that separates our skin
are threads that dance on pulsing sin.