Her cloy fingers toy with the scarlet scarf
Wrapped about her throat as she stands behind
Crystal beads which seize the color,
Divide every tint of red among themselves,
Fling vermilion, magenta, and rose about
The hot humid bright white walled room reeling
In cresting waves of nerve-straining desire.

The scarf is the only scrap of fabric
Upon her slender supple taut body
Aglow with bemused anticipation
Behind the beads asparkle with crimson
Increasingly vivid as my sight blurs
In the rising waves of gasping hunger
Hammering hot stridence into my nerves.

She whispers for me to join her, gestures
Towards soft sheets, a mattress in the corner
Behind the beads aswirl with flaring blood
As she parts them teasingly, releases:
The inflection of her voice is the sound
Of the red beads striking one another,
A sultry tingling scamper, thought-blurring
Tap tap tap.

 "The Red Beads" Copyright © 2002 R. S. Leyse.
All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

The slightest twitch of her tightly crossed legs,
Every stretch she executes while sitting
On the couch across from me: each a burst
Of regard which winds tight about my nerves,
Crackles and flares, transforms into outright
Yearning excruciatingly focused.

She isn't unwilling to receive a sign
That we ought to be exchanging kisses,
Eager caresses, take measures to rout
The cresting hunger choking conversation
Into silence which shrieks in my temples,
Sets every vein athrob, from hands to toes.

But my body, thrilling to the exchange
Of sparkling vitality, refuses
To budge: anticipated pleasure
Becomes an end in itself, communion
With nature's wellsprings, Dionysus
Alive in the depths of her pining eyes.

"Transmission" Copyright © 2002 R. S. Leyse. 
All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

We do, indeed, know one another, met
Early just last night amidst the light-swirl
Of giddy dancing entranced on a floor
Sliding out from under every footfall
Towards caution-eclipse, the wild elation
Of turning away from impulse-curbing
Hesitation, all traces of workday grind.

But I neither recall the brimming blue
Of her eyes nor the length of her glossy
Delicate dark curls which tumble about
The pillows, nearly reach her dove-white waist -
Regardless that I've done nothing but gaze
Delighted into her eyes all night, felt
Her long, soft hair stirring sweet elation
Into my tense, receptive, touch-starved skin.

But eye-tint, features of tresses - or face,
Even: what have these to do with clinging
Towards another surge, clasping gasping life
Tight against one's chest riotously filled
With fountain-spray sparkles that wash away
All nagging thoughts, every lingering
Strangling stagnant emotion tied up
In knots of pointless preoccupation?

I may, indeed, not completely recall
Either the name or physical attributes
Of a girl quickly met for the purpose
Of attaining sensual transcendence
For a few hours of a sweet night reeling
Between memory, the present, and dream -
Nor do I expect otherwise from her.

I take away emotional rebirth -
Intimations of inner quietude -
From the encounter; memory becomes
Invigorating reverberations,
The shadow of my partner's bloodbeat
Continuing to cleanse, heal and sustain:
I can only hope she obtains the same.

"Forgetfulness?" Copyright © 2002 R. S. Leyse. 
All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.