This is.... This picture is a storm
Light running off jaded surfaces.
Low notes tumbling on and on.
Leather rain drops on skin.
Tendu and sculpted silver lined limbs.
This storm a slow ballet, now whips.
Sensual, morbid clouds catch in shock.
Guts spilling.
Oil sleaze spittle drooling.
Moans distorting in twists and turns.
Talking in tongues.
Portamento slurring
Dragging contretemps
Bouncing, drenching spray.
Snarling attack dog at prey.
This storm becomes all consolation.
Porcelain ghosts in the cemetery.
A whorl wind of reminders buffet the stones
In the eye the sublime of the meaningless.
The beauty of the blankness.
Like smudges on the picture of Dorian Grey,
Colour pops from tones of gloom.
Lines stretch way on to far off doom,
Drawn from flesh and bone,
Breathless curses, soaked.
But this onyx portrait is so very still-life, it is a mirror.
Brush strokes weights like a mourner's overcoat.
Lithe leg and heel steps out the frame.
Candle flames all blown out
This storm is a terror!
