metaphor | kyle mew

A million light years

i fuck you so hard that you have to grab hold of the furniture, just to stay upright, just to stay conscious. we fuck so hard that the whole room rattles with our raw lust. glass, crockery and paper fly. cupboards burst open, their contents dashing themselves recklessly on the floor in an uncontrolled carnal symphony. shelves collapse. glasses explode. the window shatters. candles inexplicably ignite themselves. the light bulb above our head glows fiercely, before exploding and showering us with tiny shards, and as we come, cars crash outside. alarms go off. hydrants erupt. several people nearby have heart attacks. power stations burst into flames. tsunamis and earthquakes wipe out millions. new craters appear on the moon. black holes, swallow solar systems, and stars are born in a distant gas cloud a million light years away.

13.08.24 | Categories: erotica, flash fiction, life is beautiful, life should be an adventure, sex, writing | Tags: fantasy, fucking, metaphor, sex | 10 Comments

A pan – another attempt at poetry

Think of youself – as a pan of water,
And me as the fire – of the stove underneath.
Softly I lick you – slowly, you feel
Little ripples of heat – scampering through you.

The window wide open – and cold morning air
Wafts gently across you – in icy contrasts.
The heat growing stronger – rising up through you,
You roll like an ocean – in long slow convulsions.

Bubbles now swarming – through you and up you
Stinging and bursting – on your surface in gasps.
The bubbles now grow – in size and in number,
You pop and you fizzle – and writhe and spit steam

You rise up again – you have no control
And you spill and you burst – out of the pan
In long, thick cascades – screaming my name,
You fizz and you gurgle – and froth down the sides.

We lie there quite still – just trembling slightly,
I am extinguished – and you are quite empty.
Somebody calls – from a kitchen somewhere,
“Mum has forgotten – to turn the stove off again!”

12.01.24 | Categories: erotica, flash fiction, love, musings, poetry, sex, writing | Tags: Art, Cookware and bakeware, erotica, Heat, metaphor, Olive oil, Poetry, sex, Thermal Process | 1 Comment

kyle mew

Posts tagged “metaphor”

A million light years

A pan – another attempt at poetry

Think of youself – as a pan of water,
And me as the fire – of the stove underneath.
Softly I lick you – slowly, you feel
Little ripples of heat – scampering through you.

The window wide open – and cold morning air
Wafts gently across you – in icy contrasts.
The heat growing stronger – rising up through you,
You roll like an ocean – in long slow convulsions.

Bubbles now swarming – through you and up you
Stinging and bursting – on your surface in gasps.
The bubbles now grow – in size and in number,
You pop and you fizzle – and writhe and spit steam

You rise up again – you have no control
And you spill and you burst – out of the pan
In long, thick cascades – screaming my name,
You fizz and you gurgle – and froth down the sides.

We lie there quite still – just trembling slightly,
I am extinguished – and you are quite empty.
Somebody calls – from a kitchen somewhere,
“Mum has forgotten – to turn the stove off again!”

© kyle mew 2008/2021

kyle mew

Posts tagged “metaphor”

A million light years

A pan – another attempt at poetry

Think of youself – as a pan of water, And me as the fire – of the stove underneath. Softly I lick you – slowly, you feel Little ripples of heat – scampering through you.

The window wide open – and cold morning air Wafts gently across you – in icy contrasts. The heat growing stronger – rising up through you, You roll like an ocean – in long slow convulsions.

Bubbles now swarming – through you and up you Stinging and bursting – on your surface in gasps. The bubbles now grow – in size and in number, You pop and you fizzle – and writhe and spit steam

You rise up again – you have no control And you spill and you burst – out of the pan In long, thick cascades – screaming my name, You fizz and you gurgle – and froth down the sides.

We lie there quite still – just trembling slightly, I am extinguished – and you are quite empty. Somebody calls – from a kitchen somewhere, “Mum has forgotten – to turn the stove off again!”

© kyle mew 2008/2021

Think of youself – as a pan of water,
And me as the fire – of the stove underneath.
Softly I lick you – slowly, you feel
Little ripples of heat – scampering through you.

The window wide open – and cold morning air
Wafts gently across you – in icy contrasts.
The heat growing stronger – rising up through you,
You roll like an ocean – in long slow convulsions.

Bubbles now swarming – through you and up you
Stinging and bursting – on your surface in gasps.
The bubbles now grow – in size and in number,
You pop and you fizzle – and writhe and spit steam

You rise up again – you have no control
And you spill and you burst – out of the pan
In long, thick cascades – screaming my name,
You fizz and you gurgle – and froth down the sides.

We lie there quite still – just trembling slightly,
I am extinguished – and you are quite empty.
Somebody calls – from a kitchen somewhere,
“Mum has forgotten – to turn the stove off again!”