Jackson Pollock Fucking

I remember that.
Jackson Pollock fucking,
canvas on the floor and paint slung from a dripping brush.
But art? Artistry?
no, just a portrait of the artist as a young man.
Bon appétit and bone marrow.
A match, mistaken for the Chicago Fire,
held till the fingers burn
and my tongue, your fire engine,
so easily satisfied with so little,
for the need is so great.
Sip and sip again,
hold this wine on the tongue,
pressed to palate, to escape down your throat,
drop by drop. The bottle is deep,
not yet tipped half way,
mistake not absence of hunger for satisfaction.