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.
“La Dame Verte” by Brandon Gene Petit
Taken from Dreams in the Womb
© 2012-2013 Brandon Gene Petit
Author’s Note: I thought I would post something besides prose, considering I haven’t posted a plain old poem in a while. This was inspired by a female friend of mine, who told me on a late night phone call that she had spent the previous evening taking a bubble bath while drinking absinthe and eating M & M’s (needless to say, I took out the part about the M & M’s).
Dreams in the Womb is an eclectic mix of prose-poetry and more traditionally structured verse, and also explores my romantic side with a variety of dreamy and sometimes even erotic images. Copies of the book, in 6 X 9 softcover, are available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as several other online retailers. Chances are you can even order it from your favorite local indie bookstore, even if they don’t physically have it on their shelves. The Kindle edition is also available, and subscribers to Amazon Prime can borrow the Kindle version from the Kindle book lending library for free.
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
© 2012 Brandon Gene Petit