Le Petit Morte

1

Our love affair began just like they always do.
We met some fateful night beneath a tragic moon.

She was clad in black leather tight,
A dominatrix of cyber orgies fright.
In one skilled hand she held her thrash,
One arm outstretched to receive my payment of cash.

In my room of bare canvas and paint,
My Lady taught me of love so quaint.
Upon the sheets of paper plain,
She told the secrets of her domain.

Into the night we made love,
Dominatrix of blood splattered doves.
Her whip of blades, a sting like a kiss,
“Darling, without me, life you would miss.”

Through the bondage of words and literary sex,
We battered the dark and light became a hex.
Restraints of scarves of neon blue,
You were me and I became you.

Twisted fetish of a dictionary grin,
My life became nothing but maltreated sin.
My mistress tormented and whipped me till I bled
As I lay tied to the fine sculpted bed.

2

Our love affair lasted from dusk until dawn,
When each night we would lay upon the silken lawn.
My wounds were deep and painful to bare,
Her face became the visions of a loveless nightmare.

Till one night, in the darkness cold,
My mistress came with word I’d been sold.
“You made me a pledge of total dependence,
But now you abuse like its your acceptance.”

The pain was so real, I forgot how to feel.
Blind was I to her reasons why.

I heard her scream of artistic rape,
As she was violated by her chosen fate.
Through sodomy and knife
Through terror filled strife,
I cut her down and laid her waste.
Forgetting our child of such chastity and chaste.

My lady lay dying and weeping,
Through the leather her blood was seeping.
Crimson paint of soulless rage,
Words of hate became an odour filled haze.

From her lips came the sighs
The sort Art makes as it dies.
“Why did you betray me?
Couldn’t you let this simple gift be?”

With a strangled choke on thick scarlet
This tangled whore and pleasure seeking harlot
Died upon my studio floor of wood.
“Doubtless,” said I, “I did what I could.”

3

The world now is empty and forlorn,
With no Mistress to please I am torn.
No paintings to create,
No price to negotiate.

No more words have come to fill the negated,
My Art is dead and my soul is not sated.
Pleasure is gone and I am alone,
Far to many sins for me to atone.

My studio lies empty and stark,
As I think of our nights wrapped in the dark.
Of powder paint mix and the Word Format fix,
My heart hangs low with no home which to go.

The sun was arising over the hills
Of concrete and chrome, spoiling all thrills.
Daylight was here and now it came,
My revelation to end this torment and pain.

From my art box I stole an implement of steel
And from my heart there came the will
To end such suffering and ease the core
Of my shaken being that cries for my whore.

The blood ran thick upon my skin,
An ode to the challenge I would never win.
And as I lay dying, I remember through a daze
Of our moonlit dance in our sudden craze.

My breath began to diminish
As in my heart I wished to finish
One last dream of an artists essence
As my spirit became evanescence.

Now I lay dying and my heart is sore.
My only regret is I could have done more.