https://mbblissett.com/2019/06/20/whether-dream/
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Category Archives: love
Whether dream
Streets turned to mirrors
Marking time with cigarettes
And in my head
I’m twisting you to points of
Sublime, complicated pleasure
Being smart is sometimes
As much a burden as being aroused
The world mocks the man
Who owns himself
Good
Bad
But my kisses are sweet
And before the world calls me
Home
One last kiss
Whether dream
Whether real
To send us off
To whatever comes
Next
51R
51R
U 83L0NG 2 51R
A novel from M B Blissett.
A woman enters into a virtual world to realise her darkest fantasies and falls in love with the man responsible for bringing them to life, pitting her against the rules of the world she has entered.
Coming soon from L&MB Press.
Strings of light and shadow
There are moments
Hung suspended
A string of lights
Still lit,
Long past the season,
A few bulbs, dead with time
But sat there,
Bathed in a carnival of light,
All festive colours
Even the cheer has a dim memory,
But the shadows matter as much
As the light they oppose,
And between them both
I sit
And hold your hand
Driving Me Mad
Grounded by the weight of the
Unresolved lust
Slow and heavy
Almost adolescent with irritated
Acceptance
Coiled and ready to bite
Spit and clutch until
The poison drains away
Never more alive than when
I lean into my hunger
Bend you over and make you gasp
Raw and impolite
As ever, gentle ferocity
And clumsy with release
I struggle to breathe with it
Aware and awake,
Sullen animal with your scent in my nostrils
And, baby girl, it’s driving me
Mad.
Coffee, with demons.
Being good
Practices
Magic spells to ward old devils away
Being able to leave your phone unattended,
Without the low hum of fear
Running nails down your spine
But no one notices
Because you’re supposed to
And no cookies for the bad boy
Who is being a good man,
Coffee with my devils,
Black, no sugar
But he ladles dessert spoons worth,
Into his
She’s asleep,
Could go through and tell her,
But no, goodness is simpler
And I don’t beg
There is no notion of getting lucky
There is
There isn’t
I know magicians
And she told me about
Compassionate compromise
So, in the wan hours of morning,
Sat and talking,
With my demons,
Educated to a point of refinement,
It is almost invisible.
And the only things cut are
The horns from his head,
But sometimes,
They still sting.
Paternal Column
All now is father,
Bear the pangs
With aplomb
Voice in the throes of
A roar and how much better
To be heard than to find
No one was listening in the first place
Say less, act more,
A little more kindness and gentle ferocity of spirit,
Here, no hope but action.
And when you find weariness
Has the force of gravity,
I will be your column.
No matter how deep the cracks
Go inwards
