la petite mort

la petite mort
(the little death)

O, my sweetest peach, ma chérie…
let me bestow your petite mort…
With a petite-grand finale;
come the gifts of fireworks & fantasia… 
the gifts of a first breath and a last breath, the Gift of LifeAndDeath…  
And let me bestow you such a pleasure
such a celebration of this, life that we use as a given,
for we are faberge fragile – if ever we are; 
we are….right-now, right-together…

Maybe my words of mortality conjure up images of the gothic and finite, 
but I promise you {my holdin’ one} I am no hooded ghoul here to steal your light…
I am already a bearer of my own light, and I’m the bearer of your little death; 
orchestrating the chorus that sings of your unique meaning, 
that accentuates and punctuates a galloping breathing – 
for that two in one special: the synchronization hearts beating…

When I give you your little death,
then I will admire an afterglow as bright and wide as the sun-shattered earth,
which will lead into a flush of life, a longing----stretching---- birth of joy –  
through and through – let it thru to your every trembling toe;
your sin-sensational declaration/the ringing of your ecstasy’s exclamation… 

…Echoing/echoing/echoing,
through and through – let it thru; this is a reaction of the shared alone– 
…Echoing/echoing/echoing… 
this is The Big-Bang of Personal Proportions, 
through and through – let it thru, to every sin-sensitive bone–
as of this moment –you are triggered by pure electric reactions…    

O, my sweetest berry, ma chérie,
you will be my own, little scythe/my own, inspired little death,
and our sheets will be cleansed in death-sweats; and, as a pair of ghosts
we will wish to die again, and again –  so that we may have another chance to cherish, 
another time to haunt… to relish… to flaunt,
ours/yours/my, grand, petite mort…



08/19/11
M. L. Michael

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