Drawing an Erotic Picture

Control yourself higher brain of man. Show how woman is beautiful.      
A naked Tantric hologram is burned into the imagination of my innocent mind,      
and it is nonetheless innocent      
you know      
because you’ve seen the good things it’s caused me to do      
when my eyes have absorbed the light reflecting from a shameless frame.      
       
There the complete and dual cultured feminine chest bears heavily down into a man’s lustful passion.      
Voluptuous loving open hips are so apt to carry the weight of a man’s hormonal inhibitions.      
Long consuming hair, cover the man in his failure      
to see the face      
and to stare deeply into the eyes      
of a woman as she in vulnerability reveals her cosmic nature.      
       
Like a flower shows its bloom at direct sunlight      
that can’t hit the flower’s waist first and expect a bloom,      
begin first to adore the visage of a woman      
because right beyond the visage is her mind.      
       
Earth and sea are made one in this moment      
that now we question, “Was it earth that surged from sea?”      
because from the mouth of a delta a river spurs      
out into the world of ocean.      
The hardest rock formations in the lava rock revise themselves      
as a volcano runs warm and hardens its flank,      
spewing warm stuff by way of a tiny vent crater from its throat      
when aroused by the beautiful sensations      
of the dance of Mother Earth, holy woman.      
Man and woman are a dance that must perceive the rhythms of the other to be loved.      
An artist’s pencil must know this,      
but first his mind.      
       
The graphite that was taken from the earth was chosen to capture the image of the earth.      
The sensuality that was given to me by the brush of a woman’s hand      
when I suddenly began to feel that I was exploding inside        
is the sensuality that I use now to adore woman.        
       
Her silver brilliant image of fertility and sexual ambition.      
Like some goddess I believe woman to be.      
She is the goddess of the fertile floor.      
In her the flowers grow,      
and I take that flower in whole body with my hand.        
When you rip your soul apart,      
you find a woman healing the wounds.      
So flipping the flower to the southern direction,      
I give the stigma the pettings of sunlight kisses,      
and the flower extends within my hand, opening up further,      
the engorged blossom lifting its stigma up high into the sky        
and I draw it and rub the drawing of it with the help of photons that interact with the inner parts of a woman that she shows to God and to sun and to my humble eyes,  
and with the mouth of the mind, I draw from it raw honey.      
I am an artist consumed with the object of his artistic profession.        
       
Stroke and stroke on the page,      
and somehow it plays with my mind      
because I feel that though you are there, you are here in my hands, in my artwork.      
A delicate touch of eroticism when I look at you above the piece      
and observe the piece and witness the two dimensions of feminine beauty collide.      
Woman was meant to be expressed        
in every artistic fashion  
because her voluptuous subtle frame        
is living art.      
       
Clothes melt away in this room where I do my sketching      
for the representation of one visible nipple pressed against the arm as you squeeze your breasts and sit down cozily      
while the other is kept temptingly behind your flowing deep river hair.      
I can’t see beyond your hair, making your body elusive,      
a secret, but your hair is also a secret of its own—      
expansive like a further extent of entity        
only available to the frame of a daughter of the bond between earth and sky.      
The sky makes love to the earth and spills blue to form the oceans,      
and somewhere between soaked and the ability to retain form      
you are born from a fertile land      
that is far from our own—      
the land of yesterday      
where vibrancy was more expendable.      
       
In this drawing, you live another day.      
Your femininity is eternally decoded,      
so in years to come      
when witnessing the naked humanity of your vivacious lofty bodily essence,      
the forthcoming people will know to say, “This is a lady is beautiful.”      
Yes, she is the lady I drew,      
and I focused to understand her depth      
and think so too.