Your seven orgasms spiral on the plastered wall,
one convulsive image encased by six, sexy, small.
Smear tests of primary colours, a squirt of shades,
cervical pulses rapidly abstracted from nights before.
Reed-like resolutions of another mural balance there,
between, twisted candlesticks ejaculate labial wax.
(Other rooms appear now,
bronchoscopy drowning
CT guided through your
beautiful breast,
EBUS transiently invading
your loving nymphic lymph,
the popping cannula,
scarlet spray
shower
dabbing away).
Now I see you kneeling felt-tipping A4 on the floor,
jelly babies, intricate flowers, exploding diagonal bursts
lemon sorbets of delight, liquorice sun swirls, bobbly bits,
wine gums hariboesque, milk chocolate and Freixenet.
You incensed your painted glass, dripped wax ornaments,
re-invented a fish-bowl with a pumpkin face, macheted cheek
to eye, with blood dripping a happily sarcastic smile.
Sponged art releases images with time and light.
Candles and flickering smells are hidden
in the fern forest of my apophenic imaginings.
Pareidolia, My Sweetest Love,
Apophenia, My Deluded Love.
There is a bird in your Rorschach proddings now,
a goof-toothed Neanderthal turns turbaned and regaled,
a yeti with a baby’s head, sea horses with wagtails.
As daylight recedes, viewings shape-shift and explode
with teddy, Aloysius, though long since burnt with you,
his paint blistering on your paws.
Then a doe with a Mohican appears escorted by a hog.
What is your name dog? The eagle flies away from the dabs,
the gorilla glares, where did the llama come from?
Candle-lit images, a shifting C major refrain,
please paint my hands and my sheets again,
My Sweetest Love.
