Your hands are an
Egon Schiele and
I'm sinking
dropping
  descending in-
   to pits of
   sharks,
   fits of blue,
   an ocean
    of veins meeting
    fingers touching
    webbing through
    the hues

     It's not like it's
     the first time, no,
     and if I'm lucky,
      it sure won't be
      the last,

         but you and your
             Schiele hands are
                wading through the depths
                  of me
                    to where
                                     I can't
                                         go
                                            back.

She is silver-nitrate and coal.
An Egon Schiele painting
stretched on dream
and sullen sparking glances
tipped in gold.

It is starlight, burnt through a velvet field
that chains me here.
It is honey and hot wine
that haunts my sleep,
by the onomatopoeia
of obsession.

With a lunar caustic kiss
she hexed me.
Woven in her six-sided circle
those rubies in the
hollow of her neck
and fingers that shimmer
like ice.

The Sphinx of Eros.

That heathen curl.
Smoke to hide the ivory!
Spoke to lock the memory!
Caught in click clack shutters
by the silver foaming pond.
Froth from the chambers of
ebony rough hewn hearts.

O starlight!
That raptures me hungry
for bloodsoaked lips
red as fury!

And I sang;
O lord & commoner, I sang!
To the weepings of a sombre, sudden,
stinging violin,
in empty vinyl crackle
from music soaked in paint,
with a voice
like burning velvet.