The poetry & poetic prose of Brandon Gene Petit

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A Woman Beyond Your Wildest

Piercing the mists of audacious dreams with a blasphemous air of clarity… nude in presentation of nature’s newfound glamour that it practices now with skillful veneration… A woman beyond your wildest imagination, beyond your wildest dreams and desiring hours, lies mock-vulnerable on her back in a field of dream-made flowers.

 

Her hair of interweaving hues of gold… spread like an enflamed Rorschach of angel wings, or Chinese fans, to frame her face with a call for silk-lusting fingers to hold. Her eyes gleam of sea-dyed blues and greens, though wincing slyly as if in reply to a subtle breeze. Her breasts, like two pods of honey-colored flesh at rest… half-sunken into her chest as she lay back on a mattress of floral debris.

 

Rose petals tumble across her skin… propelled by a phantom gust to scamper across her firm, golden belly and part the fingertips of the coy hand that caresses it. She beams with encircling sin… but the sin comes from you, for her body is as pure as the goddess who blesses it. This precious body, bronzed in hue, glistens… no matter whether with body oil or sun-shower dew.

 

And she listens, listens for the song of Heaven to resume… to call her back from among those floral plumes and return her to tropical dreams and their sensual ivory dunes. Even as my desire is bursting at the seams, the lure of my lyre of wooing cannot call her back from the palm leaf shade… where in minnowed shallows bronze calves wade under spells of chastity with no undoing.

 

Taken from Dreams in the Womb

© Brandon Gene Petit

 

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La Dame Verte

Her smile a notch above a frown,
The subtle way she drags her gown;
Drifting to the garden tub,
Slipping off her black lace gloves.

Evening of unwinding wrath,
Absinthe and a bubble bath;
Ignorant to clock-hands turning,
Sleeps content with candles burning.

Velvet curtains brushed aside;
Sleeping, soaking, Devil’s pride;
I find her in a sultry moat,
Asleep where lotus candles float.

…Where that trail of petals led,
In the room where dress was shed;
I thought I heard her hum a hymn,
Escaping through subconscious whim.

Her eyelids twitch above her smile,
Her hair descending to the tile;
For her thoughts I’d offer pence,
Red lips hushed in confidence.

Her marinated body froths,
In body oil and castile broth;
Half asleep, beneath her breath,
She tells me romance isn’t dead.

 

Taken from Dreams in the Womb

© Brandon Gene Petit

Author’s Note: This was inspired by a witchy woman I know, who told me on a late night phone conversation that she once spent an evening drinking absinthe and eating M & M’s while taking a bubble bath. (Needless to say, I took out the part about the M & M’s.)

 

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In Praise of Long-Lived Love

It is more than the mustiness of old, familiar furniture having graced many a tired photograph… more than the tinge of floral pattern curtains so often romanced by evening pipe smoke… more than the huddled, dingy hues of decorative gourds in their baskets, or the unpolished brass of various equine statuettes that garnish the place with a love of horses.

 

It rests in that room like an ottoman cat, or a fireside hound, content in slumber at the end of its journey. It is the mark of fate having completed its duties, satisfied with the pairing and parting of a couple that at least fulfilled their promise to grow old together.

 

It all started with so much park bench romancing, such quaint eye-to-eye entrancing, so long ago in a world claiming immunity to change. It was a time when chivalry was alive and well, and frequented the sidewalks and cafés despite the looming shadow of economic hardship or the occasional presence of war in posters and monochrome television screens.

 

Baseball heroes echoed their triumphs across the amber waves of grain, reaffirming the confidence of soldiers returned, and petals were pulled as young men in love counted their chances. One man, I am sure, tested his chances… handsome with the reins of a horse in one hand and a soft spot for crooners latent in his throat.

 

He knew the keys of a piano… the inner workings of a car… and he painted more paintings hung in that house than he would admit to his grandchildren before they reached a certain age. She knew the beauty of God beyond the rhetoric of the Bible… the strange wonder of owls… and the importance of books even beyond the premature demise of her schooling.

 

A pyre of steaming tea between longing eyes of crossed lovers’ gaze… An arm-in-arm stroll over elfin bridges on days of wind and raining flowers… A lingering, statuesque kiss on a park bench amidst sparkling fountains and puddle-tramping geese… these are the images that celebrated a shared, sunlit youth, now sealed and tucked away in velvet-lined jewelry boxes, sepia photographs and scribbled poems on soft-veined paper.

 

To me, there is no sound more majestic than bagpipes at a funeral… I would have liked to have heard them that day, but there was only the ambience of birds, cicadas, and a calm spring breeze. But I am always okay with that shade of silence… those are the kinds of sounds that go with anything; universal like the color black. Oddly enough, we did not wear black in attendance, though our solemn respect was unmitigated.

 

Now, in this elegantly comatose room, clocks tick from nearly every wall and shelf; echoing to each other, diligent albeit entranced. Many of them have stopped and started through the years, either resurrected to rejoin the race or left to sleep ornately in a silent conversation with the eye. There are porcelain teapots and shelf-banished china, propped up and glistening even in the dull light. The light is warm as the soft crackling of a vinyl record, and every conversation over coffee seems to mumble just as quaintly… only a little more thinly in timbre, now that one familiar voice is missing.

 

Peace arrives with parting kisses between a ghost and a woman’s beating heart, sugaring the sadness so that it may never ill to misery. There was destiny with hello, and closure with goodbye. Two hearts were introduced, fulfilling betrothal and igniting parallel paths, and this leg of their journey is now boastfully complete. Love was created… and fate has done all that it set out to do.

 

 

Taken from Dreams in the Womb

© Brandon Gene Petit

 

 

To a Girl with Green Eyes

 

Watchful beacons fierce and free

The kind so green as verdant sea

Of mint and clover sentiently…

Wrapped around your pupil be

 

Etchings on a radial gem

Echo to my deepest whim

Crystal carvings never dim

Further from thy pupil stem

 

Glistening gaze of dampened jewel

Strings along the avid fool

Not so kind, but not so cruel

Instead a different kind of school

 

Luscious is the teary glaze

That gifts me just beyond the maze

To gently whisper sensual praise

And rival my most treasured days

 

Subtle flits of dashing green

Shifty, charismatic sheen

Piercing through prosaic scene

Coaxing me to intervene

 

Sights aligned with passion’s will

Sting me with thy lover’s quill

A woman, lest my heart be still

As she moves in for the kill

 

Iris twin; an emerald pair

Tell of field and forest fair

Gradient of goddess stare

I wonder what thoughts may be there

 

© Brandon Gene Petit

 

She Awaits

Eyes aflame with sapphire grain, my sultry mistress ebon-cloaked

Witch’s queen and lover’s vice, her hair reminds of raven’s coat

Her crimson lips boast thicker spells, my incense-perfumed spirit tease

In wait for me in amber light, midst pyromantic luxuries

 

Dressed in shadow-melding cloth, her form sylphlike yet hard to draw

Shifty in the flickering light, her flux offending natural law

Her skin is neither pale nor dark; polite to touch as dewy fruit

But never cross her path with spite; beware, my friend, her soul is brute

 

Her beauty shines when sadness looms, her tragedy devours as flame

Restlessness consumes her bed, a full moon I am glad to blame

She tends to an erotic lair, a curiosa wonderland

Lit by slanted window shades and kissed by oriental fans

 

Flightless fairy, clad in black, her voice divinely resonates

Requesting me to drop my guard and lend my heart out to the fates

She slithers through the velvet sheets, a French composer in the air,

Lending out a finger curled, commanding with a demon stare

 

Labored with nigrescent opals heavy on her neck and wrists,

She opens up her curtained arms to soon begin this sacred tryst

Breath of cloves with hint of mint, a fragrance that soon greets my face

Her lips the color of her heart, her hair the scent of pillow lace

 

Time is not a rigid service, meaningless within her vault

Hours pass, so fleeting, as her tears and sweat reward me salt

Torch-flames tremble to the passion; vaulted roof, two lovers under

Unity of souls ensues, entwining to the song of thunder

 

Then she shows me opiate visions clad with necromantic zeal

I swallow them with wormwood wine; drunk, I question what is real

Her fingertips caress my cheek; strokes me with her dainty claws

She stimulates my weaknesses and enters through my mortal flaws

 

Her pulse resounds within my chest; my mantis lover takes control

I’m weakened to my very knees, unstable like a newborn foal

She leads me down a stairwell where the edge of darkness titillates

I follow her to drunk abysses, faithfully, where she awaits

© Brandon Gene Petit

All Life is Alien

While I can’t take credit for this amazing footage, I was so blown away by this video of an unknown organism in the deep that I had to repost it and add a few relevant quotes.


“Life on Earth is indistinguishable from extraterrestrial life… human perception and its folly are the only reason for the distinction, and it is in error. Life may very well have been planted here from the seeds of a meteorite billions of years ago… and even if it wasn’t, it is just as alien. All life is alien. All of our homes are floating in space.” – Brandon Gene Petit

“Mankind tends to be fascinated with demons, phantoms, alien life forms and mystical creatures… until they appear before him and verify their existence. That is when he dismisses them the most harshly.” – Brandon Gene Petit

“And we beheld the beautiful nightmare… that performed for us inhuman grace and strength… and we gave it a name… so that no man may deny its power and beauty, or forsake the intelligent gleam in its eye.” – Brandon Gene Petit, Behold

Travelers Beware

I am a naïve vagabond with much to see, a peddler partaking of roadside roses; hobbling along crimson clay pathways with only moments to pay to the villages he crosses. I have parted the field grasses to come upon bread-scented cottages and Shetland ponies grazing; antique facades that profess to know only the passing of swallows and the language of rickety windmills murmuring. Who knew but a sage blessed with a profound clarity that only nights ago legends sought verification in the eyes of bewildered passersby? Who knew that the ambiguous creatures that stalk my dreams… and more frequently, my nightmares… could have poisoned the very streams of the next town? Furthermore, what ill-begotten whim provokes a man to tether his horse at a questionable tavern and enter to dull his senses with ale, allowing those wild fabrications of local legend to gain leverage over his weakening mind?

This, I say with woe, was my error to claim… to stay long enough to indulge in a town’s legends, and sleep at its inns with its strange liquors in my belly. Dream-vexed in a fitful sleep, haloed with a frigid sweat that chilled my brow beyond any threshold of comfort, I slumbered in the strangeness of a dark alien room in a dark alien village, denied for that night of any homeward hopes that might steady a reflection of familiarity. My pulse quivered and resounded into my pillow, echoing the steps of werewolves clutching stolen infants in their trek across moonlit fields… the wails of restless banshees shook the flame upon my bedside candle, a flame doomed to fail under the pressure of cacophonic winds.

The next morning woke me with reluctance, as though it pondered over leaving me for dead. Yet sunlight pried through the cracks in the ceiling to evaporate the sweat that stained my brow, and a walk to the window revealed only those Shetland ponies grazing and field workers dirtied in clouds of hay. I ignored the creaking floorboards under my feet that reminded of the previous night’s unwelcome oddities, robed myself and began to shed the hex a stay in this village had put on me. Haunting dream echoes lingered in my head as I breakfasted on a sunlit veranda, memories fading with each sip of steaming tea about my lips. Soon my feet would again feel the warm clay of those summer-sweet pathways, disappearing under the shade of oak tree overhangs and leaving those legends to sleep with the town that guarded them well.

© Brandon Gene Petit

If Only You Could See the Pianos

Much has been written about the odd brain phenomenon known as synesthesia; more so in the recent years, due to its becoming more widely accepted and recognized by science. For those of you still unfamiliar with it, it is basically a peculiar anomaly of the human brain that forces two or more senses to be “combined” in some manner or another… thereby creating odd alterations of experience such as “tasting” colors and shapes or “seeing” music as colors, textures and patterns in the mind when it is played. Since as far back as I can remember, I have been rather pleasantly familiar with the latter kind.

As an artist or writer of any sort, it is often quite frustrating to visualize and conceive things that don’t fare as well on paper or in some other tangible form of art… the plight of the synesthete is certainly no exception. Electronic music, especially – while often appearing as dissonant and repetitious noise to the untrained ear – is particularly appealing to me, because instead of mentally picturing people playing instruments I visualize perpetual, rhythmic patterns of texture and color. Distorted sounds are serrated, metallic or even a bit “fuzzy” around the edges, while strings and pads in the background have a murky, auroral effect that smoothly fades in and out of view. Even reverberation and echoes leave some kind of visual imprint on my imagination…a sort of ghostly after-image, appropriately.

If only I could show you what piano sounds “look” like… sharp, tinkling suggestions of crystal, glinting like falling, angular rain in shades of eerie, pinkish-red sunset.

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