Puissant Path

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 Puissant Path

“If you can do something well, do it--take

a bite of gratification.”--Mike McManus.

Our first kiss

tasted

of honeysuckle and cayenne.

Each embrace after that

became turbo-charged.

My blood heated up,

raging through the arterial canals,

like bubbles rising in boiling water.

Everything

that could stretch and swell,

did so, 

temperature spiked;

love sacks filled to bursting,

crimson turned to magenta.

Phallus and fingertips and eye lids

plumped with lust.

I could see, and feel

your body equally aroused, 

your skin very warm to the touch;

your sighs and labored breathing

locked in concert,

your eyes turning from hazel

to forest green,

your pouty full lips

pink with longing.

That first glimpse

of your perky breasts

sent a shock to my hips,

and they began to tango;

your flat stomach still soft,

your fiery fingers kneading

my abs, chest and glutes.

Your mouth became

a serenade, stoking the tempo

of our encounter,

my mouth became a love ballad,

my tongue was a metronome,

activating undulation;

lips and tongue,

lips and tongue,

then rock hard access

to a fecund cavern,

where walls are slippery

yet firm, a shallow plunge,

a beautiful box canyon,

and although I was held captive,

I enjoyed the servitude;

syncopated strokes

from a amorous piston,

racing for the G-spot

at redline 7,000;

that space

where everything goes silent,

following salutes from the big bang,

where implosion & explosion lock arms,

ten throbbing seconds

in the orgasmatron,

while ejaculating energy sears

into the plaster walls,

and precious romantic fluids

are exchanged--

just as everything stops,

and we can barely hear

the crying and sighing,

as spirit intertwines

into Cupid’s helix,

and molten heart shards

fully penetrate

beyond the beyond,

just before,

exhausted love mists

become efficacious

and well spent.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub