Texas hot winds blow,
Boreas is far from home...
Sea breezes flow,
Aeolus watches,
me on my Pagan Ride...

With time to bide,
the Goddess rides with me this night,
Flying around the Strand
Salty air arousing my senses...
Chrome on my steed of steel
shines in her light.
Frame of Black and Orange,
a work of skill,
a sign of my might.
Rewards for the fight.

Please, Oh Amphitrite...
Be with me on this flight...
I promise nothing will I kill.
Anger is in check.
Harming None
I am right.

Moon full, Cock erect...
Harley rumbles...
Heart beats...
Miles cruise by...
Keats sings in my head,
Making an Irish Son, sing of Greek Gods, this Night...
No woman in my bed...
Can you catch my tome?
Life correct?

Pain, shame, rage, oh my...
Diana holds tight to me...
Breath comes in Pants...
Helmet, what a laugh...
Blood in Southern Head...

Love with three Women at Once...
An Orgy, A Rite...
Maiden, Mother, Crone...
Each better than the last, and each complete...
All Right. Each perfect. Every women, and yet none...
Everything, and nothing.
Bright and Dark.
Right and wrong.
Life and Death.

In my mind, I see...
Acts of Lust bright...
Power between my legs
adds to lusts sight...
Feet on highway pegs...
Bridgits Flaming Hair in my Face,
Breast against Vests of leather...
Sitting Wrong way...Facing the rider who is me...
Wetness, Rightness, Righteousness,
Orgasm, Ejaculation, Freedom, MAGICK!!!!!!
Now I feel Complete...

Masturbation or Sex with a Goddess
on the bluebonnet lines paths...
Freeways and byways....
Is there a difference, for a man like me?
Come to cum did my Dream...
Sweat turned to steam.
Wet leg, spinning head, speed limit past...
Asleep White pearl, child not meant to be...
Loved still...
Now alone, But, she still here...
As always...As it should be...
So it is for me...
So Mote it Is...

Circle drawn in my head...
Lighthouses and ships a sea, my corners four...
Fairies hanging on by old Galveston Bay...
With wine yet to pour.
Irish blood pumping through veins restricted...
Buck on my belt, the only Athame I need...
Candles in Saddle bags Black.
Fringe for pussies, and bitches...
Sorry Girls, and Sisters, but that is the Vernacular...
Biker speak, if you will...
My Rede forged by Battles and scars...
Hard to turn off old ways...
Even Riding by old Galveston Bay.

I know where Waylands bones are...
Christians ground them to make Sunday bread...
His holy Gold went to the Popes rent...
Caesar by any name, just as greedy...
But, I feel Wayland true
Riding in the blue...Dolphins a jumping, Him a ridin...
Welsh or Texan?
Matters Not this close to the sea,
or to me.