On the Sale by Auction of a Portrait of the Author, Purchased by a Former Lover

I lost my balance but you picked it up,
     costly violence causing what I most
     feared to become more than just some pigment
     bright imagination mixed with dark thoughts,
     spilled light spitting drought drying out my mouth,
     cracking open my smile in time for you

     to fill it up, your white sustenance you
     pour in from your pure soul cleaning me up,
     tongue spoiled like a favoured son’s in whose mouth
     his father comes, after dusk on nights most
     initiates find themselves lost in thoughts,
     I tremble as your fingers walk, pigment

     brushing my lips, those canvases pigment
     touches only when I’m wet and trust you
     enough, my surrender of timid thoughts
     relinquishes to the fuck you call up
     what hidden wishes my sin’s innermost
     victim admits into his cavern mouth.

What wealth of yours you’ve given to my mouth
     cannot account for how much lush pigment
     every bosom would blush, with shame most
     insidious between us buried, you
     glance with filthy self-satisfaction up
     my privilege’s promise, your first thoughts

     slipping into questions then back to thoughts,
     wondering without mention how my mouth
     so open to hooking could shut you up,
     promiscuous as a famous pigment
     exposing itself in a painting you
     suppose some patron did not think the most

     flattering, you take me down a notch most
     nights, hanging out, sucking off, until thoughts
     ruin things, from your cock to the head you
     never use, crimson oozes in, your mouth
     agape as Eros wastes his lost pigment,
     washing off that big grin lust tarted up.

Chaos burns often enough to stir up
     this passion impatience turns to pigment,
     blurring love before entering my mouth.