Monday

He is our lover

The artist is a slut
His body is not his when it is on stage
It is the altar and the offering
He is wanton and it is naked and
He is naked in your face:

His neck is taut
His nipples are erect
His hair spreads in his armpits
His dick is limp against his pubes
His belly heaves with desire.

His face is not painted
He paints with his face
His eyes speak and only you know what they say
For there are no words.
The only language he knows:

The raising of the head to receive grace
The quivering of lifted fingers
The rippling of sinew beneath the shoulders
The stretching of the leg
The curving of the feet.

The artist is a slut
He pleases himself with his art,
Not you.


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