voices sound better
in descent / in distance
cut off from the source
distorted / dissonant
unsalvagable from another
  
i listen to poetry in stairwells
paint faces from sounds
so the real thing never compares

I paint with vibrant hues

in hopes the immense colors

will stain my hands

and seep into my soul

but

the tints always dull into shades

and I reverse to the nothingness

Each word we paint
on the canvas of life
are tears, our ink
for our golden quills

paint me
with the wet tickle
of your tongue
lingering with affection
savoring my fervent flavor
in bold strokes
of your obsession

color my essence
in heated hues
sending shivers
down my spine
in anticipation
of your warm breath
against my flesh
with every blissful caress
to ensue painted petals
of animation

with your supple lips
gently blur the lines
of my curved hips
softly stroking
the subtle shadows
of warm depth,
blushing
quivering thighs
as I gasp
of breath

plunge in
a primer coated palette
dipping your stiff paintbrush
deep within
the folds of my blanket
manipulating
a trembling image
of your voracious lust.

craze me
again and again
in breathless
****** glow,
your sensual brushstrokes
gently murmuring
layer on layer
in alla prima flow

delve deep
into my eyes
paint splattering
the passion
of my soul
drizzling silken strands
of love
in their entirety,
polishing me whole

and then
in blissful backwash
admire
the tangled limbs
interposed
of your
completed masterpiece
in smiling
sated repose

Loneliness smells like wet paint
bitter sharp
and comfortably toxic.
Pigmented tragedy stings my nose,
brimming my eyes with tears.
The more I inhale
the fainter I feel,
dizzy with sadness
and wildly confused.
Liquid isolation
stains my walls
Egyptian blue,
thick abandonment
coating my insides.
This dense colour
that wears my body
shall dry out and harden,
like the tears I wore before,
leaving me a cracked canvas.
I shall cover my mass with a new colour
and fill the cavities of my past self.

pain[t] is not permanent.