The poetry & poetic prose of Brandon Gene Petit

Posts tagged “poem

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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.)

 


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