Dreams in the Womb
Brandon Gene Petit
Brandon Gene Petit is an indie author of poetic prose and verse who refuses to be bound to any one subject, style or mood. The tone of his pieces can range anywhere from gothic and nostalgic, to dreamy and romantic. His collections could be described as borderline dichotomous, at times showing traces of pessimism and existentialism while other times expanding into breathable fantasies with touches of folklore and romance. He gets much of his inspiration from dreams, paintings, and everyday life, but also hints of a fascination with “past lives”, or what he more acutely describes as “past incarnation experiences” and paramnesia (déjà vu). A lover of classical poetry and aesthetical romanticism, Petit strives to speak of the past mingling with the present, in a voice of mystery, illusion and melancholy reminiscent of romantic times. In his daily life he is also a lover of music, science, psychology and art, and he enjoys sketching and cartooning in his spare time. To date he holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Education and English, and has considerable experience working with special needs children; a profession he finds very rewarding, next to art. He is currently working hard to “connect the dots”, as his mentors have often put it, using his creative talents to benefit his profession in education, and vice versa. You can find him in upstate New York and New Jersey, spending time with his kin or corresponding with fellow poets, teachers and musicians.
Echoing back to a time when prose was poetic and romance meant the passion of dreamers as well as lovers, “Dreams in the Womb” explores the wanton-romantic heart of prose-poet Brandon Gene Petit in an eclectic collection of prose and verse. Although following closely on the heels of Petit’s previous collection, the somewhat vexed and Poe-esque work entitled “Ab Antiquo, Ab Aeterno”, “Dreams in the Womb” professes to take us to more beautiful, more fragrant and visually delectable places than before, leaving the relatively gothic overtones of Petit’s past works somewhat distant but not forgotten. While not without an occasional well-dosed touch of darkness, the images and themes in “Dreams” are, as a whole, decidedly elegant and tasteful in a way that aims to allure and dazzle the reader. The poems are designed to be musically fluid, the quotes boast great meaning in all their brevity, and the numerous segments of descriptive prose tend to play out like miniature stories or erotic vignettes. Dreamers and seekers of beauty can escape the mundane light of day and drench themselves in dense verbiage as dark and thick as crimson wine, ultimately revisiting the ornate and redolent eras of Joyce, Dunsany and Poe.
“Petit has a way of choosing and using words that depict the most perfect visions and replicas of his imagination… I feel as if I’ve been bestowed with one of literature’s best-kept secrets after having been introduced to Petit.”
– Sarah Ann, Dreamworld Book Reviews
“These are vivid poems, bright in their use of images and the way they inflect the reality of their stories with new light, new ways of seeing things… We’re able to see how so much of what we ‘briefly glimpse’ can really affect us powerfully.”
– Judge, Writer’s Digest 21st Annual Self-Published Book Awards
“In Dreams in the Womb, author Brandon Gene Petit takes us on a sensuous journey. Bursts of passion fill the pages and invoke images within the mind’s eye. It will fill your imagination with delectable images and enticing possibilities.”
– Nicole Morgan, erotic romance author
“A wonderful collection… sultry and smooth… it filled my mind with vivid images, provoking thousands of thoughts.”
– Courtney Breazile, romance author
Her species of witch has wild, Amazonian eyes… fluorescent green like jungle ferns, or a glimpse of meadow mirages undersea… altogether embodying the wildness of tropical rivers, paradise birds and exotic instruments. On cue, a spectral pan-flute incites a chill from my neck when they shoot up to pierce me from across the room. This momentary glance reads my soul and questions my presence there, just before she looks away, continuing her path with a tilt of her head and a flip of her hair from her ear. A passing wave of audacity strikes me with a sudden fever… so uncharacteristic of my humble disposition. I feel the heat rise on my neck as I call to her and interrupt her path – almost offensively against nature, it seems – shattering my unofficial oath of silence and daring to take a gamble on my dignity.
Masking her surprise and offense with a waxing curiosity, she breaks the graceful symmetry of her path by shouldering past some man to get to my corner. My body heat rises as her form approaches, her mouth half-open and her slender eyebrows curiously raised in lieu of a verbal response. Once she is close, invigorating perfume radiates from her collarbone, and I can see that a wispy, silver-charmed necklace rests there against a sloping bed of flawless skin. A cross or an ankh, I cannot tell with a peripheral glimpse, but it is too late to risk my eyes lingering so near to her cleavage… for at present she gazes up at me with each emerald jewel of an iris, as if patiently awaiting my words to see what forces they may feign to invoke. I take a moment’s swim in her eyes… for the eyes that once shot lightning at room’s length now become a thoughtful spring to bathe in.
The maddened, wanton-poetic devil inside me begs me to ask her… “Where did you steal a young native girl’s eyes… and what audacious god allowed you to combine them with the polished weaponry of your urbane form?” But I ignore the whispered assaults on my conscience, and ask her only if she would allow me to buy her a drink. But her glass is already filled, she assures me with a sympathetic smile, and she is not to be drinking much more for the night. I politely withdraw in hidden disappointment, wondering if a mad poet’s words would have fared me any better… but my eyes have eaten their fill, even if my heart has taken nary a bite.
She disappears back into the crowd, her long, black, Rapunzel hair luring my line of sight down to her hips writhing in that slender dress… like a python’s girth dancing rhythmically in a taut cloth bag… until the human gates formed from drinking, bantering fools close around her parting grace. She was a cruise ship rendezvous, a nightclub Cleopatra… but little did I know she carried more sad farewells than an airport romance. As a childish sorrow and a scolding devil-poet begin to creep up my back to join me in a stare over shoulder, I can’t help but think that somewhere else in this jungle of a place a man is pouring some radiant fox another round, celebrating the fact that his words drew more blood for the kill than mine. Alas, some men are sorcerers… tamers of the witch… others have lips long since dried of magic.
– passage from “She Rules the Room”, pg. 99