Russian Roulette (Part One)

She was standing in the door,
A silhouette like forbidden Lore.
And in Her hand She held a gun,
Softly She whispered, “Lets have some fun.”

I sat at the table, watching my Lady
Smoking Her cigarette, clouded and hazy.
She gave me a grin of sexual pleasures,
Undoubtedly, Her appetite I could not measure.

“Lets us play a game,” said She,
“If you win, I’ll repent and let you go free.”
How could I refuse Her offer of finality?
So graceful She stood there, Art’s majesty.

Upon the table She placed the gun,
I eyed it cautiously, “You’ve already won.”
I stood to leave, to rid myself of Her sickening scent,
And Art just smiled, “Darling, you know this is meant.”

I stared at the wood and sighed,
So hopeless was this I almost cried.
Art sat slowly, careful in Her feline grace.
I shrugged heavily and sat to save face.

“You first,” Art said to me,
“Pick up the gun, click and we’ll see.”
In abject horror my hand touched the metal,
Smooth and cool, as soft as a petal.

Closing my eyes, I held it to my head,
Within seconds I might be dead.
Clicky Click, the metal sang.
Eternity passed, no bang bang.

Trembling, I put down the slick revolver,
I slowly took a breath and pushed it over.
“Now you,” I whispered, shaken.
Art exhaled the smoke of the drag She’d just taken.

With expert hand and an ego that was bigger,
Art cocked the hammer, tweaked the trigger. 
Clicky Click, the shooter sang.
Seconds later, no bang bang.

“Isn’t this fun, dear student of mine?
Who needs anything when this does fine?”
Art sarcastically waved the smoke away.
I swallowed hard, I might never see another day.

“May I ask you one question, please?”
I sat forwards, inhaled the nicotine and wheezed.
“Why must Art be so repulsive and vile?
Can She not be passive and servile?”

“You’re an idiot!” Art shrieked and mocked,
Handed me the gun with the hammer cocked.
“You really think Art is about fun and games?
Fool are you if you want all Art to be the same.”

Clicky Click, the firearm sang.
Forever vanished, no bang bang.
I dropped the gun upon the wood,
“Christ,” said I, “I did what I could.”

“You made yourself a martyr to the cause,
Never stopped to wonder why, never stopped to pause.
Instead you shied away from risking it all,
Stupid are you for never taking the fall.”

Art sniffed in vague distaste and disgust,
“You always thought you did what you must.”
I watched Her shoot that damnable firearm,
Knowing each time I was one step closer to harm.

“Live by the gun and that’s how you’ll die,
So stop bitching and complaining, now you cry.
If you want Art to be real and true,
Then Art must not be dreams, it must be you.”

Clicky Click, the handgun sang.
Sweat in my eyes, there’s no bang bang.
“You’re wrong if you think I’ll live by this,”
I said, “I’d rather live life than feel death’s kiss.”

“Then Artist are you not,” came the reply,
“For all Artists must suffer and wither and die.
With no risk there is no passion or creation,
Existential thought and wayward fascination.”

Passing the gun to me, Art sniggered,
My resentment grew and my finger on the trigger.