Hockney

I wonder if he talks about Hockney to others

or if he just does that with me?

And what if I wanted to just brush black circular 

motions like a long playing vinyl record onto a canvas 

as I listen to Happiness Is A Warm Gun? And what of it?

Do you think that I really want to sit in this uncomfortable

chair and watch the paint dry? I will lay it on thick

just like all those dicks I held deep into my throat

while a moan escaped a stoic prick. And what of it?

What if all I all I want to do is slap oil paint on that canvas

heavy without rhyme or reason other than to watch gravity

pull it down? What if all I want is to smoke clove cigarettes

and swallow the molasses-like whiskey letting it slug down

my throat because that is all I remember about love?