Enclosed is from the erotic portfolio I am doing with painter Kim Scott. The paintings are mineature water colors.





Green Garters, Pink Legs


Red gushing brush
Cerulean blue lash

Still life libertine
Dreaming of sashimi





Sparkplug


I've got the kind of fire
That snaps and catches--

A match drawn roughly
Along a short, cold zipper

Thrown on a pyramid
Of dry fireworks

I have the kind of sizzle
That crackles in a room

I like to make waves
I like to shock men

I get up close
I burn my face and hands

I feel the tinder catch hard
I let it run wild all night long

It burns the belly of the beast
Who sleeps in my dreams

I am the flaming diva
I am the flag on fire

I wobble on smoldering coals--
I cry homicide, I undulate

I incinerate, I axiomate
I ordainate, I oxidize, I fry






Quiver

At the thought
Of his long hot hand
Flying like a shuttle
Over the warp
Of moonlight

Colossus of the Loft
Towering over
Tangled thighs
Squeezing the seed
Over a punzel
Of tiny bones-

Yet not touching it at all
Kneeling above
Creamy whiskered sex
A plate of steaming organs
On an epic bed of themes






The Heat of the Hunt

This poem is from a collaborative effort between myself and William H. Fuller III, and is a song as well.

The wet streets of Paris
in sultry June
Walking among cafes at night
A sea of black sweaters and nightbain shoes
Just before the good bye

Writing songs at midnight on the Pont Nouf
With a thick cigarette in my fingers
A gossamer grain ribbon in my cinnamon hair
O, how the memory lingers

Lights blinking on the quay beside
The Seine singing below
A little crystal mirror
for dancing drunken sailors
The riffs of ricochet saxophones

They were singing from the Metro in the earth
Gentle breeze and fluttering scarf
Float like xylophone butter from my throat to my shoulders
A silk flag just above my heart

I wandered on inhaling the musk
of beautiful whores in their doorways
Noting the men in the heat of the hunt
Sniffing up hemlines in hallways

They were drooling from the corners
of absinthe-crusted cracks
Night laughter booming but shallow
Like handfuls of fingers on harps made of glass
Like necks yearning for lips on the gallows

Then silence the stones and rugs and bones
The ripe moon in the sky-
A deserted bench by a groaning barge
Just before the good bye




(c) 1991 Viola Weinberg and William H. Fuller III

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