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Weekend Omnibus – Poetry

Here is a collection of the poetry posted on the blog this week. Please comment and share.

https://mbblissett.com/2017/03/04/breathe/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/03/04/animal-at-rest/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/03/03/a-possibility-of-flight/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/03/02/to-dive-seen/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/03/01/on-the-beach/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/02/28/i-am-the-river/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/02/28/divine-collision/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/02/27/such-is-how-i-love/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/02/25/stealing-kisses/

https://mbblissett.com/2017/02/24/ache-2/

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Lips

20161217_122457

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erotic poetry love lust poetry sensuality women

Lips

20161217_122457

Watching me speak

As much as listening

Fighting the urge

To reach out and touch

Tracing a fingertip

Against the soft, red flesh

With a child like fascination

Your adult imagination

Already feels my breath

Against the places

Growing warm beneath 

Your clothes

My voice goes with you

Through you

Into you

A bow that has fired

Something deep into 

You. 

Not quite Cupid’s arrow

Because no cherub

Would do the things

That you imagine

Me

Doing.

 

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Come At Me

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Reflections in two mirrors

He sent them to be seen by her. That he had tangible proof of his commitment to his purpose and his growth. Each session, each rejection of easy but costly temptation was there in the heft of his pectorals, the lines and striations in his hip flexors and the way that the softness around his jawline was disappearing. He loved the reaction, knowing that she carried the coiling heat of want within her. A talisman against the bland sweep of days. He could not fake the look in his eyes, in a moment sourced in purest expression of his primal, sexual self. Such awareness and acceptance was rare, he had denied it before, but now he was comforted and protected by it.

She struggled with it. She knew the angles to offset the parts of herself that remained distasteful to her. Her body rebelled with the marks of time, but his reaction cast its  magic over her. A litany of informed praise, fuelled by want rather than need. Through him, she saw herself and it rubbed raw against everything else around her. A sweet pain, an eroticized grief that in its rejection, left deep scars that only he would be able to heal.

Now the mirror, the chain of static images connects them both and they pretend it is not there for the sake of sanity.

It remains though, and it would take so little yet so much to pick it up again and feel its comforting, powerful weight.

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The Rush of My Blood

https://soundcloud.com/matt-blissett/the-rush-of-my-blood
Come here
Put yourself in my hands
Because your purity
Makes me ache
To leave marks
To see how beautiful
You’d look
Flushed and spoiled
 
I want to break you
Sweetly and thoroughly
Hands bound
Because something in your
Eyes begs me to try
That you dare me
To show you the gentle
Fury of my lust
 
Fingers knotted
Around your damp hair
I call you names
That would make you
Cringe in public
But here, shame is a
Shadow extinguished
By your light
 
And afterwards
I am an ocean
On a calm day
Reflections of the sun
You can almost
Hear the rush of
My blood
Soothing us both.
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A Storm That Frightens The Animal

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The unspoken heat 

Between us seethes

Peering between the bars

Of it’s cage

Yet so often, it’s lust

Is mistaken for anger

But here, we pass one another

The means to set it free.

Wrestling against one another

Mouths blooming where they meet

Hands finding something worthy

To touch, the fragile strength

That grows and swells

Like a stormcloud

Soak me with your rain

Deafen me with your thunder

Burn me with your lightning

This beast,

It has your eyes

And my voice

Come here

Set

It

Free

 

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Gospel

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All the things I think
About doing to
You
I swallow
At the thought
Of a finger trailed
Along the inside
Of your thigh
Eyes growing wide
In the fading light
The kind of touch
That transcends
The truth of our being
Meat and bone
That makes your
Body sing
To the gospel of
Fuck
Tell me what you
Want
Use me
To the point
That I am
Ragged with
Lust
You affect me
The way the
Moon
Calls the
Wolf

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Diving

My touch,

Slow as time’s passing

Curiosity informing the tools

Of moistened, agile tongue

Saliva slick fingertips

So even the friction

Feels like warm gold sliding

Down the inside of your thighs

Diving beneath the surface

The golden lakes of our flesh

Held in one another’s mouths

Small stabs of pleasure

Building until we lose all that we are

In a short squall of warm rain.

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beauty creative writing desire dominance emotion erotic poetry erotic writing erotica experience hunger love lust masculinity passion pleasure poetry purpose seduction sensuality sex sexuality spoken word strength taste touch Uncategorized wildness women writing

A Violent Imagination (spoken word)

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I sit, at a desk

Walk through a park

Smiling to passersby

In my head though,

Oh god, in my head

You’re beautifully dishevelled

Glowing with sweat,

Raised up, put on a pedestal,

Glistening with filth

You taste so delightful in my head today

Darling, I respect you

Which is why I’m man enough

To give you what you need.

And as the hours pass

You never cease to amaze me

Made divine by my imagination

But the promise of you

Hasn’t disappointed me yet