The Question

I wrote this some time ago after finding my watercolour pencils lying temptingly in my desk drawer and realising, that I still have the desire to use them...I just can't seem to find the time!

A Question of Time

Stare up at me
smooth incubi of persuasion
lying prostrate on the kitchen table
drenched in water now
liquid frustration
let me damage those sleek white sheets.

Sit down and feel
sharp marks and lines,
defined curves and angles,
softened by the tender fingers
of a vandal, such as I
who wants only to mould this world
to her match her lies,
her visions
of beauty
that sabotage your mission of truth.

Look at you…
I’m starving, famished.
I’ve been that way for years…
I lick my lips as I promise myself a taste,
bitter and thick like potter’s glaze,
of red and orange and deepest blue
in my mouth
on my hands
remnants of you that I savour as I
French-kiss the air and yield
to temptation
of you
reclining there.

Coloured soldiers of fancy,
upright, then dancing,
in heavy circles
light on your points as you meet the oracle that is muse.
Shamelessly, you have been used,
as mere willing tools in a moment of lust
that cannot endure or last forsooth
for there’s no room in my days for obsession
with you.