A Sidereal Seduction

I came over to watch her dance,
knowing that with every glance
she gets more excited,
knowing that under this male gaze,
she feels my lustful praise and her hips raise
for me to feel invited.
And while she spins her veil of Maya,
yet her legs part and she slowly opens up…
Like a horoscope chart, for my reading pleasure,
her heart and her art now read in full measure:

First pulled in by your gravity,
into this little cavity
of space,
I couldn’t help but notice the trace
of the ample curves of your auric field,
and the voluptuous yield
of your energy, My Grace!

What fertile…imagination you have!
A cancer perhaps? If not, please forgive my lapse
of judgement, for surely,
with such full and sensuous lips,
a Taurean you be.
And if not bull-headed,
your thick, starlit, lustrous hair,
must come from a line of leonine heirs.

But your sheer blue eyes,
and the subtle fire
you twirl about your fingers and your guise,
I can never not admire.
If you scorch and burn and pierce and lust,
then pay tribute to Scorpio, I must.

You dance returns and transits,
choreograph the moves of planets;
and when you arc that heavenly back,
my Mars is well ascendant.
While you work the axis of our fates like a pole,
I feel a grand rising in my deep in my…soul.
Spinning and swinging your hips in orbit,
your legs split by degrees and I cannot ignore it;
revealed in rays all sunlit and moonlit,
A most exalted (mons) Venus!
Fit for a king to sow his star and his genius.

But before we get to that True Node,
I insist on more foreplay from this ode.
Leap and pirouette for me!
Continue to draw praise for thee!
The aspect of your supple arms,
conjunct breasts and sextile charms,
opposition of two pairs of lips,
the trine of your hips-
all of this only eclipsed,
by one incredible full moon,
and the snugness of your grip.

Oh Midheavens!

We should go back to my place;
my fifth house, or seventh house,
or especially my eighth.
You and I can get retrograde.
And after you’re soft and pink and freshly laid,
I’ll watch your pregnant promenade-
your procession of the equinox,
along star-crossed and spun catwalks,
leaving mortals to guess at your charade
and who it was that sired your babe,
he who left other mortal men, outplayed.

So I must confess that I’m on the cusp,
born between the signs of love and lust,
and already I’m already falling in
to your overbrimming cup.
So grab my hand, for romance sake,
or my wand, if rather you ache.
For fate
Is always waxing, and waning, and on the make,
and I refuse to mistake
you for Mercury’s flake,
when you may just be an opportunity to awake.