Le Petit Morte Part 3-Me Proteger De Ce Que Je Veux

(i) Le cycle recommence.
(The Cycle begins again)

I remembered her face in a sudden dream,
As I stood behind the door, trying not to scream.

My Lady was here, at long last,
Through dark lonely days, our love had passed.
She stood now at my tainted door,
Dressed in black and red… My loving whore.

Her eyes were dark and shining bright,
As in a sudden craze, our passion ignites.
To the bed she led me, with scarves of pins
As I begged my Lady, please, let my heart in.

She tied me down, a punishment I knew,
And whipped and tormented the whole night through.
We made love upon the velveteen sheets,
To make up for lost time, for it had been weeks.

But at last I could create, my Lady showed me how,
Through paint and pen, I write this to you now.
I imagined her face upon a silver plate,
A head to show any artist their fate.

I wrote of a time when our love was blind,
Of the nights of intimacy we still seek to find.
The moon turned red, and silver turned to grey,
As the night time faded and hailed a new day.

(ii) Me protéger de ce que je veux.
(Protect me from that which I want)

I awoke to find a canvas plain
Amid the scattered paints of our domain.
My Lady was waiting in lace so fine,
I couldn’t believe this Art was mine.

She gave me a smile and held out her hand,
“Darling,” She said, “You know this was planned?”
I had to die to show that Art was my being
And forget it all, though blind I was seeing.

“Payment,” she whispered. “A new commission.”
I lowered my head and awaited permission
To begin a portrait of us in our heat,
I sat in the silence of my defeat.

“I do not wish to paint today
Can’t I do it some other day?”
Art threw at me jar of turpentine;
I picked up the glass like a holy wine.

“I say paint and that’s what you will do!
You do it now or this muse is through!”
Art screamed and whipped me, like in the nights of old,
As inside I was dying and my love growing cold.

She left me here in my studio bare
And I painted her face, oh so fair.
Protect me from that which I want, desire,
Protect me from Art’s cold heart and cruel fire.

I stood before my canvas of white,
And marvelled at my soul’s dark plight.
I could not live without her touch,
“Sadly,” I mused, “I knew this much.”

(iii) L'art est la vérité pas je.
(Art is the truth, not I)

Art returned later that night, stinking of pleasure.
It burned a pain in my heart; I wish I’d not met her.
But she gave me a smile and gentle caress
“My dear child, your face is a mess.”

Tear stained dreams that turned obscene,
For Art is violent and never serene.
Within a moment of sweet devotions,
She turned to me, a fury of emotions.

“I beg you please, do explain,
What the hell you painted in my divine name?”
Art struck me hard with a brush of blue,
I fell before her as she turned a hue.

“You call this a portrait of our love?
I’m your dominatrix of lifeless doves!
You’ve painted an outrage of a thesaurus grin!
No twisted S&M of a dictionary sin!”

The vivacity of Art’s anger thrived,
I buried my face and tried to hide.
But she was so vicious and so lithe.

I ran to the to the balcony, to jump and be free,
But I didn’t get far, for Art snared me.
She grabbed my hair and pulled me back,
Within our struggle their came a snap.

I felt my wrist break and pain then flooded,
I fell to the floor, bruised and bloodied.
“My Lady, you wound me. You’ve broken a bone.”
But she couldn’t hear me amid her moans.

“You are my slave,” Art cried.
“I need you to survive.”
Art pulled me to her, scent sweet perfume
And I lay back in her gentle cocoon.

“You can’t see the pain of being me.
I exist to torture, extract and deceive,
I don’t exist to play and to please.”

Art gave me a tear filled smile
And after a while,
She pulled me to my feet and gave a look so sweet.

“Darling, pain is the art,
It is the vital heart.
Without it all will become insincere.
Now dry your eyes and shed no tear.”

Art took me under her damaged wing
And told me of life and its meaningful things.
I gave her a kiss of love and affection,
For she was my Art, my resurrection.

Our love affair had begun just like they always do,
When we met some fateful night beneath a tragic moon.