bouts pour le petit mort
the best kept secrets are unkempt, unkept, and unwept:
lullabies lukewarm deep in denim jeans – the best laid plans of mice and men
are hidden in the bottom draw with the pictures of old girlfriends – the x files –
admist the dogeyed-eared concertmovietickets dyed-ona-septembersizzlingember
if i tied you up would you scream for me? all hallowlikesaviorliketruelove splitting your
lips open - red and dripdripdripping
if i held you open your wingspan stretched far passed it poppingpoint
and reeled your fingers back in, a pressurepoint for the pressurechief
would you call me all those littlelies and dance this pathetic petitnoir-petitmort?
the blindfoldblindgag over your senses muffle the sound you make when i ask you
simply to look inside your self and not at yourself – all you seem to understand is that these
confusing verbal linguistics aren’t questions but hurdles and i’m a smoking gun. – or so
you tell me.
if i rambled on just long enough to put us on the edge of a knife, would you take my
picture, a polaroid, and slip it into your dreams?
would you call for me? even crawl for me in this petit mort - a poor man’s tango – our
limbs and hearts sprawled out on rubyred silkenspreads pinpricking each other in hopes
of getting out.
the snake always quarrels with his s(kin: afraid of it’s own fangs, it’s own worth – you
are that to me. stuck between pictures and secrets and morbid little petit mort noires of
the soul.
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