Alla Prima

A pinch of pink nipple,
blush of skin,
rippled flesh swollen
sweltering in
a summer field.
Melons warm, beaming,
their sweet enslaved aroma
ripe for releasing.

I take all my dates to
the National Gallery.
Curate their tastes;
satiate my curiosity.
Hang in my mind’s museum
whatever masterpieces
our combined
imaginations fancy.

For sex is an art,
and I prefer to foreplay
well-dressed
in the 18th century.
Firm hands grip the rod.
Peaches spill from a linen blouse.
Our whispers among
well-decorated walls.

If the date makes an impression,
the 19th-century
sprints in our direction
hoisting flags with open shirts,
cards and absinthe,
nude picnics next to your
propositions.
Posing before we kiss.

And if we survive the gleaning,
we will circle round
the sculpture garden,
a tactile playground.
Admire through touch
the contrapposto hollows.
Test our toes in an arching fountain
and try to guess which poise
best fits our figures.

For who knows?
The art we later make
may spark a revolution.

© 2022 | K.Hartless


Cover Art: Cecily Brown “Beach Towel” 2013

23 Comments

      1. In some ways the art we make, its the only thing that survives us. It’s the best of us, really, laid bare in words or colors or notes with the hopes that our collective lives will hold meaning to people in the times to come.

        Liked by 1 person

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