The Paint On The Canvas

(For A***, with love)

you sit in soft twilight,
sheets draped over you,
knees drawn up, watching the waning sun.

you're beautiful when you work,
a measured erotic cadence of brush and colour
I could watch for hours, and I do.

we make love after the war
throat and tongue lashings
of kisses nipped in buds and necks.
there's paint everywhere, on the sheets, on the floor, on each other
but that doesn't matter.

The only paint that matters is the paint on the canvas.

Last Night

Screeching harrier
you think you're so fab-bu-lous
tone down voice and hips