The Artist

earth lives in wet caress
like polished drops of orange sun
that slide and mould the contours of my soul

you are a sculptor

my breasts are clay that cry and move,
your push and pull sucks me into being,
thumbs press and stretch like God and water flows in open pores

like moody tears and music to a pool of stone

a deep note inside a song
the touching is a thrill of voice itself

you are a musician

melody comes thick and sweet like sugar in hot tea, black tea, sprinkled on my body, crisp flakes contrasting with the felt on which you rest your open palm

full grasp of flesh like biting into something rich and salty

a lick of wicked script
a tongue teaching me
the words of a wild, graceful tune

you are a poet

large earnest loops of love trace letters, holding me still, bending my will

a lyrical freedom

heart beating like bubbles bursting
big thick molasses bubbles, bursting slowly, like punishment

a wash of soft paint,
a brush of colour in my belly
pleasure laquers the canvas with vibrant oils

you are my painter

poetry and mark making go together

The Wet Caress