Stable (yet again)

 

Stable

.

We shall meet

in the close, cramped,

tack-room dark where,

for almost an hour

I have shared the tight space

with saddles and hats,

bridles & bits.

.

The pungent odour

of horse and leather

and something sweeter

has made me heady,

has made me dizzy,

has made me hard

and tight in my jeans.

Waiting for you.

.

I can hear the horse

in the next stall

noisily shifting

his fifteen hands

on thin, muscular legs.

Hooves striking concrete

through soft smelling straw.

.

Your favourite mount

is soft mouthed

and compliant,

alert and responsive

to your hand on his flanks,

and your weight on his back,

your legs astride,

your legs open wide,

open so wide,

forgive me,

so wide.

.

I am leaning against

a smooth wooden table.

In the musty dark

my fingers have found

a dozen deep carvings

of passion and lust,

scratched in the wood,

ingrained with dust.

Names and arrows

and irregular hearts.

I cannot find ours.

Why can’t I find ours?

.

The surface is full

of today’s coats and tack,

still damp from the hack

still fresh from your back.

My throat tightens

as I breath in your smell

and the muscles of my stomach

dance beneath my skin.

I want to begin.

I can’t wait to begin.

.

I have your crop

clutched firmly

in my hand.

It swishes and cuts

through the silence.

Tested on my thighs

its unexpected bite

makes me cry out aloud

With my eyes tight shut

I brush my face

with the whip,

with the loop at the tip.

I imagine its hiss,

its hot stinging kiss

its fierce burning kiss.

Just a flick of my wrist.

.

A rhythmic swishing

through the razor edged grass

signals your arrival.

Whinnying horses

confirm your presence.

And now, at this moment

my shirt feels clammy,

my breathing is unsteady.

My heart beat deafens.

I clutch at my chest

Be quiet.

Be quiet.

You must not hear me,

until I am ready.

Until I am ready.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I’m not sure where I found the photograph years ago, but to whomever, my apologies. I will remove it or credit it if you contact me.

Stable was inspired by my antique riding crop that I must admit in recent years has seen more action on delicious, submissive female behinds than on the flanks of equine mounts. My then lover was a keen rider and I remember waiting for her one early evening in that leather-rich tack room dark ….

Stable is one of my favourite ‘performance’ poems – by which I mean it was written to be spoken aloud rather than just read. Old blog friends will know this poem far too well but hopefully will allow me the indulgence of re-posting it once again. If it is the first time you have read/listened, then I hope you enjoy.

 

Thursday’s Child

 

Thursday’s Child

.

Well, I hear that you have been travelling

with a friend in an open-topped car,

and you revealed to him all your secrets

and you showed him your operation scar.

You painted his name on your mirror

with a lipstick glossy and red,

and you posed for imaginary photos

in the warm nest of your unmade bed..

.

He sent you a handful of spidery poems

that you captured with pins on your wall,

I read them when you were sleeping

and they seemed to make no sense at all.

Yet you recite them when you are bathing,

trailing your sharp nails over your thighs,

and you emerge mysterious and glowing

with a wild, vacant look in your eyes.

.

There is more to this than just attraction

or some strange late night trick of the light,

and you shouldn’t be reading his memoirs

in a dress that is so transparent and white.

And I fear that you’ve sensed a religion

in the casual, brave cut of his coat,

as you kneel so sublime at his alter

clasping tight all the letters he wrote.

.

Now I hear you’ve constructed a bonfire

from the things your sweet mother knew best,

and that you comfort his wide-eyed supporters

who sleep with their hands on your breasts.

But you never once give them the shelter

they crave when the light has grown dim,

and while you suffer the press of their bodies

you save all your mystery for him.

.

I miss you when the round moon is sailing,

I feel your caress in the turn of the tide.

it is as constant as the ache in my shoulders,

It is the sharp stabbing pain of your knife.

And oh, how I hunger for you to be near me,

your peeled clothes like a sea at your feet,

your pale skin tasting of salt and seaweed.

I’m a slave to your scent and your heat.

.

But if I plead with him to release you,

with just a snap of his finger and thumb

will you forget his smooth benediction,

or the velvet magic of his silver tongue?

.

.

I apologise to regular readers who have read this often – but it has been a year since the last posting. This is one of favourite my ‘performance’ poems. In fact it might even be one of the poems I am most proud of having written. And it was written many years ago. It started out as a song but I struggled to develop a chorus.  As I said, It has appeared in many places. I have posted it a number of times here before when this blog was even less popular than it is now.  It tells a story that was inspired by (my) real life events.  Because it is penned in the first person, the reader/listener tends to think that the narrator is writing about himself. Actually I was the writer of the ‘handful of spidery poems’.  

Do listen to the audio – it was a poem that is meant to be read aloud.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photography by Ines Rehberg.   Model is Megan Szczypka. I chose this photo because she is not unlike the female subject of the poem