A Halloweeny type of poem
I think I should have been writing this earlier this week, so it would have been up all day.
La (Petite) Mort
Cocktails and house-beats,
we neck in the velvet booth,
disco-lights and candle-smoke,
sweat-sheened bodies
like stars on the dance floor.
On your lips I taste
the gin of a martini.
Through your stretched cotton camisole,
the smooth curve of your breasts
interrupted by your hardening nipples.
Your long-nailed hands in mine,
we pass through the crowd
and out the tinted glass doors
into the steel canyons of the city,
riding whitecaps to the door
of your apartment, keys freed
from your black clutch.
Every moment since our eyes
slid across each others
has come to now,
our bodies sliding across each others
with ever-greater skin-tingling
moments and kisses
onto the black satin sheets,
bared flesh ready and flush.
There is no magic
in the hypnotic depths of your eyes,
just hunger.
You lick your lips and offer
eternity in your arms
and as I penetrate,
you penetrate,
these shards of ivory
and an orgasm…
la petite mort…
la mort….
Before long, an expectant darkness,
the taste of copper and your wrist.
My eyes open to the alabaster
of your breasts,
skin cool, heart still,
but the passion…
no lessening of ardor,
nothing to ease the hunger
for your touch.
Only your gasps in the long night,
fucking on the marble slabs of biers
to show that we have cheated death
of its payment.
Only a deep bass more felt than heard,
my hands pushing against
your leather pants;
we are galaxies on the dance floor;
every moment in the long night
we drink ecstasy.