The painter and her object

With each stroke she paints what she takes from me on canvas.
I lie on her bed, statue-still, as she bites her lip,
pauses with her brush before pinning down her illusions.
The window is open a crack, I am as small as a Greek sculpture,
and my nipples are as hard as a naiad’s in a Scottish lake.
“Can you close the window before you paint my cock?”
“No, darling, be quiet. And stop moving.”
She will not fling my love poems back at me,
or spit on the blazons in which she is my flower-crowned nymph.
She likes them for their Layton-esque pornography,
their slight inaccuracies and the fantasies they fulfill,
whether they are perverse or tender.
She takes no less than I have taken from her,
and she adds style and lies as I have added.

- Jason Freure