hedonist notion of hell: us as sticks, simple instruments
in service of some utilitarian version of touch

color for category's sake, all dictionary and box
-- is that what you want?

you, red spot: pinned down or shooting out?
the thing within the thing

the shadows are magnificent. the way flesh
lays on flesh to make mountains of us

but the frame again -- nipples, navel, limbless -- again
and again -- labia belly breasts -- handless.
headless. "womanly."

but there I go thinking again.

she: loverwifemuse / you: painterwriterdoer
does the cannibal hanker for her own flesh?

what's to come: a new hunger, electrosexual rebellion

a ban on jealousy's double-standard, history's iron steaming us
uncomplicated and cheerful, enough with the airbrushing
enough with the saccharin grins enough with the token
cramped back-room gallery

enough with the minimization of woman as muse / as
stand-by-your / as if all she wanted to do was lie back
and be immortalized by you

dig up the paintbrushes and test them for menstrual blood
aren't the curtains vermillion? isn't the sun red?

could you stand her as anything more than the girl on the tracks?