At the foot of the Eiffel Tower I paint her likeness
with furious sensuous contrasts of sanguine and ultra
marine hues. I visualize a couple of russet hard rubber
nickel-plated spokes and pedals spinning, twinkling
on either side of her y-fork limbs.
Built like a brick shithouse I fancy reading the dimness
of her isosceles tri-angled intimacy with the tips
of my fingers as if my whole body were Braille
palpating the warm seams of her mix of delicate
valleys and tightly canvassed vertebrae.
I clam her tongue-soft brake pads where she's joined
her shiny hula hoops and rose pomegranate seat and
paint her breathlessly, whilst she races her thighs against,
by now, my deflowered labia in the style of de Kooning
melding in her peculiar yet stylish hip sway.
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
Form: Prose Poem
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.