11 January 2015

His skin

His skin is the parchment
upon which I write
secrets words
with my tongue -
stifled symphonies and
secret sonnets
as he moves only
to my rhythm.
Wrists are bound
by the chains
that bind him
to the easel,
and to me.

Fingers tighten around
his neck, as
he struggles
to breathe against
the confines of
the tightness.
His body is my
journal, my diary,
my blank sheet,
of paper.

His body
becomes my
canvas as I begin
to create.
To write.
To paint.
Filled with a carnal
desire of
and calligraphy.

Secured tight to
a flatbed easel,
Passions spill onto
skin. With
gentle strokes
savage licks.
I want you to
be of my creation.


  1. YOU are back.

    Your words. Your depths and the ability to paint a picture with your writing. Your words come alive, they create a scene so real, so felt it could be happening. Your inspiration has returned Kat.

    I for one have missed your words. Their beauty.

    Welcome back.

    As always, A x

  2. 'I want you to be of my creation' love that, it's like ascension