La Petite Mort

Life is like the little death.
It just goes, and then comes again, then goes away.
Black light of dashing sunset blinds my eyes.
Scorching heat and humid air pierces my skin so deep.
My eardrums bleed as of moaning echoes of fair Lady Amore.
Tongue is tormented with the salty-sweet tastes of pearls.
It smells fishy.
And rotting.
Her lips taste like smelling newly mowed grass,
It tickles my sight.
The utterance of a well-made speech was made
by Mark Evans on the southern end of Spelthorne, Surrey.
It wasn’t a good speech, after all.
A cake can’t be made if you don’t have an oven.
Only monkeys eat cake not baked in an oven.
Are you a monkey?
Monkey, monkey, Annabelle!
Anyone can pass his or her driver’s license test
because people have huge feet and a sore thumb.
Vorrei mangiare solo una piccolo cosa.
No, no no. I only speak English, sir.
The bittersweet scent of love
is the most horrifying smell I’ve ever had.
Red roses are for mourning people.
Rose is the flower of sadness and hate.
Red is the color of death.
I rolled on the highways of San Francisco
and jumped from the topmost spires of Petronas.
Lame Jesse, he cannot do the Marathon.
He is so weak and vulnerable.
Someday there will be catastrophic waves of the sea
and everyone on earth will be wiped out.
Nevertheless, I would love her still.
I love the pebbles from my Aunt Marietta’s farm.
It is so soft and is absorbent.
To the place where you will go, I would hide.
Ci vorra molto tempo?
Before my shoes can write the best poems of life
and his sole can speak “Replace me. My heels have gone folded!”
Before every pain will just feel like the quick, little death
and Lady Amore would finally
sing a beautiful song.


There. My orgasmic poem. I don’t know, but somehow my Creative Writing teacher isn’t so happy about it. Maybe because she didn’t expect me to create a poem about “those things” that early. Or maybe it was just too orgasmic for her. But for what I know, it’s not all about that thing. I don’t know. I don’t feel good about my poem, either.