My Poetry: La Petit Mort (A Little Death)

I’ve killed you again

My little peach,

But as your breath returns

Propped on an elbow,

Bare flesh bruised you moan:

I’m a terrible lover,

That tonight, was not as good

As that night in early Autumn

When, after picking fruit from hedges,

Your purple lips tasted

The type of little death 

Which makes martyrs of fools,,

Adulterers of the damned,

And perverts of the lonely.

That tonight,

Like an amateur origamist,

I was just lucky

To produce fireworks


From the folds of your flesh.

But by what means

Would you prefer to die next?

Maybe I’ll choke you

Like the teenage ingénue

From a Streaker Named Desire

Screaming ‘La Petite Mort’

In a high false crescendo.

Or perhaps your own hand

Is more to your taste,

Reenact the Karma Sutra

By candlewick.

Or maybe dress up

Pretend the bed is our stage,

You be the Nun, I’ll be the vicar

And we’ll reinvent original sin.