Mymuseur's Poetry
Mymuseur's Poetry
RSVP EROTICA
Blind Mind
I dimmed the light in the room you are standing in so you wouldn’t see the flush.
It was still there, growing more defiantly fierce with each glance, your way, or mine.
A fleeting droplet of perspiration trickles down my spine, settling in the lower curve of my back, in the exact place I want your hand to be, instead of on her.
The immoral absurdity of the moment is decadent, indecently decadent. Disgust and desire danced by a heated pool of hedonist delusions.
My physical reactions to your voice and movements are wildly intoxicating, painful, and euphoric at the same time.
Can you hear my thoughts as my eyes burn scratch marks across your body?
You shifted uncomfortably; maybe you can hear me after all.
Quiet panting, with a near silent rhythmic moan.
You show no leniency and provide no reprieve for my escalating mania and discomfort.
My blind mind loses its reality, one delusion at a time.
The urge is palpable now, the flush is peaked. With eyes close my blind mind replays for me the rapture and perversion.
Naked
In a brief moment of clarity, I saw you. Unadulterated and without pretence, I saw you.
Your polished veneer and humble facade cracked and translucent, I saw you.
Blue, yellow and red, I saw you.
With stained eyes and parted lips, I tasted you. Bitter-sweet, saccharine like, I tasted you.
Over ripe lemons and unripened clementines, I tasted you.
With stained eyes, parted lips and uncovered ears, I heard you.
Quiet and sad, like an unappreciated ballad, I heard you.
With stained eyes, parted lips, uncovered ears, a bleeding nose, I breathed you.
Wet grass, cold water, and cheap soap, I breathed you in.
Like old wine, and ripe peaches, I breathed you into me, one drop at a time.
With stained eyes, parted lips, uncovered ears, a bleeding nose, and cold hands I felt you.
Blinded, tasteless, deaf and mute, I felt for you.
With reckless abandon, I fell into you.
With stained eyes, parted lips, uncovered ears, a bleeding nose, cold hands and life, I woke.
I woke... from my moment of clarity.
The Velvet Fungus
Like the soft smooth edges of a tumour, or the poisonous velvet fungus growing contently on the side of a tree, yours is that comforting, highly inextricable kind of love.
Like the anaesthetizing high of a tiresome heroin addiction, or the uneventful satisfaction of a familiar orgasm, yours is that very reliable kind of love.
Like the vandalized water fountains of inner city parks, or the sick beauty of a flawless sunrise over a blind city, yours is that sad, unappreciated kind of love.
And like the implicit belief that you’ll live until you die,
or the tacit understanding that this is normal,
yours is that silent acquiescent kind of love.
The Blight of those Fucking Wild Flowers
The Blight of those Fucking Wild Flowers.
One small vintage bottle of fine deep garnet red Port and a puff later, here we are.
It makes no sense to me, none at all. Like those wild flowers that are attractive but really weeds, infesting, teeming with subtle, yet prolific expanse.
Crowding out the competition with their substantive nature, they plague their host with long slender roots of thorny attachment.
The colours are extraordinary, their presentation more vibrant and intricate than any orchid’s opening…. but just as demanding.
Existing precariously, so infectiously. If you try and rid yourself of it, they will return and recompense with fervor.
Their pronounce stature, the colour of the petals, and their simple presence draws me in everytime; no, no sense at all, those stupid fucking weeds
Of Selfish Penchants & Proclivities
The second button. The first button is commonplace and acceptable, guarded and uneventful. The second button deafens my ears, blinds my eyes, seizes my words and pierces my skin.
The smirk. Never has silence been so exceptionally tantalizing.
The deep voice. The vibrations melt into tones, the words become meaningless, but nonetheless unforgettable.
The glare. Uncomfortably long, incredibly intoxicating.
The pause. Correctly place, appropriately time, delightfully endured.
The exhale. There are few worthy of mention, but the correct one, worthy of epics.
The Y. Thank God for the Y, for without it, I would have little inspiration, and little fun.
I dimmed the light in the room you are standing in so you wouldn’t see the flush.
It was still there, growing more defiantly fierce with each glance, your way, or mine.
A fleeting droplet of perspiration trickles down my spine, settling in the lower curve of my back, in the exact place I want your hand to be, instead of on her.
The immoral absurdity of the moment is decadent, indecently decadent. Disgust and desire danced by a heated pool of hedonist delusions.
My physical reactions to your voice and movements are wildly intoxicating, painful, and euphoric at the same time.
Can you hear my thoughts as my eyes burn scratch marks across your body?
You shifted uncomfortably; maybe you can hear me after all.
Quiet panting, with a near silent rhythmic moan.
You show no leniency and provide no reprieve for my escalating mania and discomfort.
My blind mind loses its reality, one delusion at a time.
The urge is palpable now, the flush is peaked. With eyes close my blind mind replays for me the rapture and perversion.
Naked
In a brief moment of clarity, I saw you. Unadulterated and without pretence, I saw you.
Your polished veneer and humble facade cracked and translucent, I saw you.
Blue, yellow and red, I saw you.
With stained eyes and parted lips, I tasted you. Bitter-sweet, saccharine like, I tasted you.
Over ripe lemons and unripened clementines, I tasted you.
With stained eyes, parted lips and uncovered ears, I heard you.
Quiet and sad, like an unappreciated ballad, I heard you.
With stained eyes, parted lips, uncovered ears, a bleeding nose, I breathed you.
Wet grass, cold water, and cheap soap, I breathed you in.
Like old wine, and ripe peaches, I breathed you into me, one drop at a time.
With stained eyes, parted lips, uncovered ears, a bleeding nose, and cold hands I felt you.
Blinded, tasteless, deaf and mute, I felt for you.
With reckless abandon, I fell into you.
With stained eyes, parted lips, uncovered ears, a bleeding nose, cold hands and life, I woke.
I woke... from my moment of clarity.
The Velvet Fungus
Like the soft smooth edges of a tumour, or the poisonous velvet fungus growing contently on the side of a tree, yours is that comforting, highly inextricable kind of love.
Like the anaesthetizing high of a tiresome heroin addiction, or the uneventful satisfaction of a familiar orgasm, yours is that very reliable kind of love.
Like the vandalized water fountains of inner city parks, or the sick beauty of a flawless sunrise over a blind city, yours is that sad, unappreciated kind of love.
And like the implicit belief that you’ll live until you die,
or the tacit understanding that this is normal,
yours is that silent acquiescent kind of love.
The Blight of those Fucking Wild Flowers
The Blight of those Fucking Wild Flowers.
One small vintage bottle of fine deep garnet red Port and a puff later, here we are.
It makes no sense to me, none at all. Like those wild flowers that are attractive but really weeds, infesting, teeming with subtle, yet prolific expanse.
Crowding out the competition with their substantive nature, they plague their host with long slender roots of thorny attachment.
The colours are extraordinary, their presentation more vibrant and intricate than any orchid’s opening…. but just as demanding.
Existing precariously, so infectiously. If you try and rid yourself of it, they will return and recompense with fervor.
Their pronounce stature, the colour of the petals, and their simple presence draws me in everytime; no, no sense at all, those stupid fucking weeds
Of Selfish Penchants & Proclivities
The second button. The first button is commonplace and acceptable, guarded and uneventful. The second button deafens my ears, blinds my eyes, seizes my words and pierces my skin.
The smirk. Never has silence been so exceptionally tantalizing.
The deep voice. The vibrations melt into tones, the words become meaningless, but nonetheless unforgettable.
The glare. Uncomfortably long, incredibly intoxicating.
The pause. Correctly place, appropriately time, delightfully endured.
The exhale. There are few worthy of mention, but the correct one, worthy of epics.
The Y. Thank God for the Y, for without it, I would have little inspiration, and little fun.
Let me know what you think!
Sat, 5th February, 2011
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