Some more rhyme-y stuff. This is mildly racy (well not really, just slightly racier than other stuff I've posted - possibly) so avert your eyes if you're of a sensitive disposition. Okay, not that racy.
Where We Belong
The art room: pastels, brushes stiff with glue
papier-mâché, the Japanese silk screen
and prints – Matisse and Turner, Monet, Dou.
I don’t belong here with last year’s display
my hands too small, too fine for inks and chalk
these narrow wrists too delicate for clay;
and yet I find my features here, in paint
subjected to wide centuries of longing
in every pretty mute Renaissance saint
and every passive, sultry silhouette
oh all Lolitas with their teasing hunger
whose artists are tormented even yet.
Art and pornography, the oldest ruse
and we are not exempt from this ballet
the ancient arabesque of artist-muse.
Let’s not keep secrets: you are twenty-four
and I am seventeen, unschooled, unpractised
trembling Madonna, unromantic whore
depending on your mood. I am not wrong
to say I know what thrill you want from me
to say we’re both aware where we belong.
