Nature has no time to tend to my wounds… it is too busy trying to create, too busy trying to survive. I am certainly not nature’s oldest creation, but I am old enough for it to ignore… left to stagnate in the shadowed shelves of its prodigal collection, nudged aside for the birth of bigger and better things.
Evolution has shaped me a fool, and left me to my own devices in a world unkind to such a breed.
Is it an abuse of poetic irony that I thought of my own failed love affairs while gazing upon courting birds in their mock-duels through the bushes? Their tiny bodies dart hither and there, chattering frantically amidst fleeting glimpses of wingbeats… an effigy for the quarrelsome nature of love. So many living things have success in these quarrels, but I fall behind as I am likely designed for a different purpose.
A greater purpose?
The stench of the ocean on her body, and the taste of her lips piercing through a tinge of sea-salt and sweat… I feel every crack and groove in her lip, and the heat of her nostrils faintly flaring out of the darkness of a blind kiss…
The succinct sound of a kiss being completed in otherwise deafening silence… that wet, puncturing accent that occasionally slices through a sea of desperate breaths heaving and dancing…
The tight, rubbery texture of her clean, wet skin against mine… a harmony of cold water beads and warm flesh…
The smell and luster of summer heat in her hair, even when it is drenched… and the way she swears at me when I fondle it and a finger carelessly plows through a tangle.
I love the way she sasses me, and ignoring the protest I play with her hair anyway…
He thought that his anger held precedence over all other things, as he tried and tried to scream louder than Nature’s lawful commands.
The one who tempted revelation… the one who forced words of taboo from his throat, and stamped his feet in demand for grave events.
He began life as a good man, and though his anger was justified it finally took him too far over the edge.
Never has such a child of a man brought so much havoc on the world, and ultimately absorbed it into himself while the others were thankfully saved.
Even divine forgiveness has only so much patience, and Nature will not hesitate to inflict a lesson where it belongs.
The sin known as wrath… sister of vengeance… the refusal of reason and the rejection of salvation.
Only a few remember that pitiful man and the climactic rage in his voice…
Late that night on Lime Kiln Lane, a bone-colored moon laid quivering lotus petals of light onto the oily waters below the bridge… the bridge’s back arched like a cat frozen in a fearful stance, still quaint for all its old New York charm.
For a few drifting moments we were but figures in the mist, passing through each bubble of fairy-green lamppost light with a gradual acceleration of lustful steps… my coat on her back as she pretended to gaze into the waters and I fought to regain attention with a finger at her chin.
Before long we came to the security of the porch, where moth wings batted at the amber light of a familiar archway… despite their antique dust they danced like a halo of pixies above our embrace, as we exchanged one last patient kiss and bid farewell to our storybook innocence there on the doorstep.
Once inside, the door locked mischievously and the key fell without a sound into a pillow on a nearby chair… our clothes were thrown into shambles about the floor, soon to be trampled on our blind kissing-path to the darkness of the bedroom.
My mouth drank its fill of aromatic pores, and I traced the length of her arm as I clasped her hand and guided it out from her body in a waltzing stance. Her neck yielded to my moist caress, as I felt my lips glide over warm tendons blanketed by smooth, flawless skin; it was like a fresh, tender snow heated from below by Krakataun soil.
The grayness of her body shone like a sculpture to the silvery moon in the skylight, and I gifted myself a sleepwalking stroll along the lunar landscape of her flesh. I grew close enough to feel the pale, tiny, insignificant hairs at the base of her back, yet smooth… revealed only by a discerning sense of touch that tickled through the stubble of my chin; I then twirled her around to behold her perfect teardrop navel heaving a rhythm with each passion-saturated breath.
The apartment was cold and dark from a day of absence, but I pressed her into the bed with hot, life-giving breaths and smoothed the goosebumps on her skin with the balm of my eager touch…
Lord knows fairy tales don’t end this way, so from here the curtain must be drawn… because words cannot convey the passion that shadows and whispers protect from mortals with no business in love. I have no choice but to leave you with the mere tassels of a greater vision – as my own memory has since done the same – and return you to those old world lanterns of Lime Kiln Lane, now dim and tame.
© 2012 Brandon Gene Petit
- Taken from Dreams in the Womb, Sept. 2012
"It is her soul, mind you, that is so inclined to devilry; I wish not to betray the
benevolence of her solid form. In life she would harm no living creature, but
her sidereal body eludes her moral confines once it is summoned by my juvenile yearning.”
© 2014 Brandon Gene Petit
- Taken from The Insomniac in Love, Ab Antiquo, Ab Aeterno, Nov. 2010
Eve polishes the apple with a rub against her chest
And offers it to Adam with a beckon call of perfume breath
Nameless pleasures coat his throat, a consequence of scorpion sting
Realms no longer kept from man unveiled by fallen angel’s wing
Cradled in a primal sleep, our hero soon forgets his quest
Locked away in goddess keep, asleep beneath the Devil’s crest
Her scent is rain, her blood is wine, her eyes agleam in serpent make
Prometheus has no greater gift for man to break his vows and take
© 2013 Brandon Gene Petit
- Taken from Ab Antiquo, Ab Aeterno, Nov. 2010