Too Big A Noise For My Trade Poem by Learnmore Edwin Zvada

I have not the lines to describe the whim of a painter
fashioning a portrait of a kept woman,
nor have I saddled my gaze upon the seesawing
bosom, supple skin's dimpled rise, the rounds
and turns of a damsel's posture looming out of a
steamy illustrator's zoomed lens

How unfortunate it is to be without knowledge
of such sinuous a summation of feminine artwork,
its rendered foreign to me, that adverse ineptness
straddling up on my tongue
needless to say, the portrait in itself is an object
of forlorn ambience to the eyes of the escapist,
the one extremist I am inescapably mutating into

It isn't surprising why my verses maintain that I
have tastes colder than a witch's ears, unwrapped
to such a cruel set of words, too soon I'm bound to
step aside and let the painter and his paint do what
they think to know best