La Petite Mort
Here I am
Feeling compelled
By an inner sense
Instructing me
With an urgency
And an acceptance
To let you know
That like
The english beat
I do confess
Without any
Sort of pressure
Or undue duress
That once again
The little death
Has left me
Ecstatic
Satisfied
And spent
In fact
We even
Made ourselves
A puddled mess
Because I
Did not go
But instead
I came
Then went
And left
Depositing
A stickiness
And a dampness
That one
Might call
My liquid
Essence
Staining
The disheveled
White cotton
Sheets
Spread over
The mattress
Of her bed
And despite how
Afterward
I swiftly fled,
I always make it
A policy of mine
To bestow
Upon her
Benefits
Inaugurating
Her pubic mound
and pleasure dome
With a modicum
Of bliss and
Unforced happiness
And while we
Have no
Binding ties
Between us
Except perhaps
The restraints
We affix
upon each
Of the
Posts upon
Her four
Post bed
I will not deny
I will not defend
Because there's been
A few witnesses who
Along with us
Will affirm and contend
That it's true
What's been said
And that we
Get our fabulous
Freaks on
Doing more
Things to
Each other
Sexually
Than you
Could ever try
To keep confined
Within the
Dark cells
Of your mind
But truly
In the end
I don't consider
Myself as being
Kinky, but
It would be fair
To state
Instead that
I'm bent and
I'm a deviant
Yet I am not
The type that
Poorly influences
And metaphorically
Spoils milk
Or ruins bread
But almost every
Chance I get
It's safe to say
I am not
A pervert
But I
Do Transgress
With a large
Amount of pride
And joyousness
And at the very least
At the very end
All that is left
Is the cloying of our
Still co-mingling
Intimate scents
A heightened
Awareness
And tenderness
Of your nipples
And breasts
A wonderful
soreness of
Your ass and cunt
Caused by the
Loving and careful
Administration of
Pinches, Slaps
Tickles, and Clothes-pins
And the many things
My tongue, teeth,
and mouth do best
Until inevitably
You feel a need for rest
And that you have
Been untethered
From your own
Mental moorings
And you wish to
Make less the effects
Of the exhaustion you
Feel as a direct result
Of our sucking, thrusting
Fucking, lusting, rutting,
Goring, and kneeling upon
The hard parquet flooring
Before you begin to
Experience a negation
Of the lightness
And open up a
Treasure chest
Of those familiar
worth-more-than-gold
Sensations that
Pirouette their
Way across the
Surface tension
Of our flesh
But most of all
What I like
The very very best
You might say
Is how I think of sex
In a sort of psuedo-magico
Religious sense
Not something
That spurts
All over
And then you
Grab your clothes and
Get dressed
You see, to me
Sex is something holy
And I am like
Its sacred priest
Feeling quite blessed
And even though
I'm much much
More devilish
I like to
Think that
I am
Heaven
Sent;
An acolyte
Of The
Little
Death
Feeling compelled
By an inner sense
Instructing me
With an urgency
And an acceptance
To let you know
That like
The english beat
I do confess
Without any
Sort of pressure
Or undue duress
That once again
The little death
Has left me
Ecstatic
Satisfied
And spent
In fact
We even
Made ourselves
A puddled mess
Because I
Did not go
But instead
I came
Then went
And left
Depositing
A stickiness
And a dampness
That one
Might call
My liquid
Essence
Staining
The disheveled
White cotton
Sheets
Spread over
The mattress
Of her bed
And despite how
Afterward
I swiftly fled,
I always make it
A policy of mine
To bestow
Upon her
Benefits
Inaugurating
Her pubic mound
and pleasure dome
With a modicum
Of bliss and
Unforced happiness
And while we
Have no
Binding ties
Between us
Except perhaps
The restraints
We affix
upon each
Of the
Posts upon
Her four
Post bed
I will not deny
I will not defend
Because there's been
A few witnesses who
Along with us
Will affirm and contend
That it's true
What's been said
And that we
Get our fabulous
Freaks on
Doing more
Things to
Each other
Sexually
Than you
Could ever try
To keep confined
Within the
Dark cells
Of your mind
But truly
In the end
I don't consider
Myself as being
Kinky, but
It would be fair
To state
Instead that
I'm bent and
I'm a deviant
Yet I am not
The type that
Poorly influences
And metaphorically
Spoils milk
Or ruins bread
But almost every
Chance I get
It's safe to say
I am not
A pervert
But I
Do Transgress
With a large
Amount of pride
And joyousness
And at the very least
At the very end
All that is left
Is the cloying of our
Still co-mingling
Intimate scents
A heightened
Awareness
And tenderness
Of your nipples
And breasts
A wonderful
soreness of
Your ass and cunt
Caused by the
Loving and careful
Administration of
Pinches, Slaps
Tickles, and Clothes-pins
And the many things
My tongue, teeth,
and mouth do best
Until inevitably
You feel a need for rest
And that you have
Been untethered
From your own
Mental moorings
And you wish to
Make less the effects
Of the exhaustion you
Feel as a direct result
Of our sucking, thrusting
Fucking, lusting, rutting,
Goring, and kneeling upon
The hard parquet flooring
Before you begin to
Experience a negation
Of the lightness
And open up a
Treasure chest
Of those familiar
worth-more-than-gold
Sensations that
Pirouette their
Way across the
Surface tension
Of our flesh
But most of all
What I like
The very very best
You might say
Is how I think of sex
In a sort of psuedo-magico
Religious sense
Not something
That spurts
All over
And then you
Grab your clothes and
Get dressed
You see, to me
Sex is something holy
And I am like
Its sacred priest
Feeling quite blessed
And even though
I'm much much
More devilish
I like to
Think that
I am
Heaven
Sent;
An acolyte
Of The
Little
Death