DAWNRIDE

horseadnleg02

WayneSL 1990

My breath smokes out past eyes that roll toward your scent
mixing with the steam that rises from my flanks,
the blanket off.

My nostrils flare to catch your musk,
my haunches twitch
and I await your mounting.

Grip firm the horn to gain your seat,
leg high and heave
to settle in my saddle.

Ride me as a well-bred dame her stallion does:
shoulders open, back erect and arching,
posting high and hard.

Let me gallop to start and to work up a lather,
and stand in the stirrups awhile and then
taking a fist full of reins and mane

clamp your thighs and force me to a rolling  canter,
holding back the trembling tension
eager for the sprint,
and then we

take the hurdles as one creature,
flow and surge through turn and straight,
strain and ache together ‘til we
catch sight of the final gate.

Now in furious headlong flight
we hurtle down the homeward stretch.

Bend low to taste my salty mane.
Hear the roaring of my breath.

The pounding thrusting gallop throws us forward to the precipice
until with one last lunge we leap the river
and for one eternal moment
float outside of time and space.

My flanks and your legs
brushing bushes and tall grass
sweat and dewdrops mingle

heaving chest and pounding pulse
settle to a glowing bond.

Thunder echoes
deep vibrations
shiver, crest and tingle:
wind-blown ripples on the pond.

Hard-on Her-shelf

scream

to be read aloud- not for the eyes alone

WayneSL 1988

She’s
clearly stated,
lamb-innate-dead,
full-did, stay-pulled,
mute-ill-aided.
Her
over-raided
hair is plated,
care-full color
punk-chew-ate-id;
thin, sharp loins
suck-singly sated.
Tho’
she in her-nest
met-hid-dated,
won-tied meat-who
fill her jaded
cave-urn up, she
weak-need hated,
met-dick-ate-head,
then be-rate-dead.
In
steel and glass her
heart/womb crated.
Now
from her four-tress
priss-on fires the
flaming bolts of
quenched desires
and suffers more than
lone-lie-nest

TIDINGS

Salvador Dali: The Persistence of Time

Salvador Dali: The Persistence of Time

WayneSL  1990
 a Vilanelle

Time and Tide, who wait for none,
still bind me fretting to my place;
in stately meter march until they’re done.

There is one race I’ve never won:
I’ll never beat, but always chase
Time and Tide, who wait for none.

Death and taxes, moon and sun
allow no alteration of the pace;
in stately meter march until they’re done.

Things I need to do, I shun.
I dawdle, then I rush, and still must face
Time and Tide, who wait for none.

These universal rhythms weigh a ton;
they never dance with any joy nor grace;
in stately meter march until they’re done.

Change is a constant, and the only one;
Though I can find no standing place,
Time and Tide, who wait for none,
in stately meter march until they’re done.