Poetic Edging: The Highway Man

Transcript

Surprisingly, a lot of people have really liked the ecstatic poetry readings. That is me reading poetry, not necessarily designed to be erotic or sexual, but reading them while I edge just to see how far I can get through them before I have a massive orgasm. Sometimes I make it all the way through, sometimes I have a few ruined orgasms in the meantime.

It's always an experiment, but it's fun to try. And since everybody seemed to like the poems, I went and rated all of my poetry books and found some others to share with you. Today I'm going to do one of my favorites, which has been a song.

It has been a romantic ballad, it has been an epic poem, and I don't know if I'll get through it. I'm going to keep my vibrator on low because I think if it's any higher than that, I won't make it halfway through the poem. But anyways, so we're going to go ahead and read The Highwaymen by Alfred Noyes, which is a three-part epic poem and was once turned into a song by, I want to say, Lorena McKinnon.

All right. My wand is. ..

I shifted and hit my clit the wrong way. Okay. So my wand is tied to my clit.

We're going to turn on low and read this poem. Oh, goodness. Ooh, I was not prepared for that.

Okay, there we go. The Highwaymen by Alfred Noyes. The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, and the highwaymen came riding, riding, riding. The highwaymen came riding up to the old inn door.

He had a French cocktail on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe skin. They fitted with narrow wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.

He rode with a jewel in a twinkle, his pistola butts in a twinkle, his rapier heel to twinkle under the jeweled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed to the darkened yard. He tipped with his whip at the shutters.

It was all locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there with a landlord's black-eyed daughter, best landlord's daughter, planting a dark red love knot into her long black hair? And dark in the dark old inn yard, a stable wicker creaked.

Where Tim the Ostler listened, his face was white and peaking. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay, but he loved the landlord's daughter, the landlord's red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say, One kiss, my bonnie sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, and I shall be back at the yellow gold before the morning light.

Yet if they press me sharply and harry me through the day, then look for me by the moonlight, watch for me by the moonlight, I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way. He rose upright in the stirrups, he scarce could reach her hand, but she loosened her hair in the casement, his face burned like a brand, and as the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast, he kissed its waves in the moonlight, oh sweet black waves in the moonlight, and he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. He did not come in the dawning, he did not come at noon, and out of the tawny sunset before the rise of moon, when the road was a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor, a red-coat troop came marching, marching, marching, King George's men came marching up to the olden door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed, two of them knelt at her casement, the muskets at their side, there was death at every window, and hell at one dark window, for best could see through the casement the road that he would ride. They had her tied up to attention, and many a sniggering jest, they bound a musket beside her, the muzzle beneath her breast, now keep good watch, they kissed her, she heard the doom man say, look for me by the moonlight, watch for me by the moonlight, I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way. She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good, she writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood, they stretched and strained in the darkness, the hours crawled by like years, till now on the stroke of midnight, cold on the stroke of midnight, the tip of one finger touched it, the trigger, at least, was hers.

The tip of one finger touched it, she shoved no more to rest, up and stood to attention with the muzzle beneath her breast, she could not rest there hearing, she would not strive again, for the road lay bare in the moonlight, blank and bare in the moonlight, and the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain, ta-da-la, ta-da-la, had they heard it, the hoof prints ringing clear, ta-da-la, ta-da-la, in the distance, were the deaf that they did not hear, down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, the highwaymen came riding, riding, riding, the redcoats looked to the priming, she stood up straight and still, ta-da-la to the frosty silence, ta-la to the echoing night, nearer he came and nearer, her face was like a light, her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one deep breath, then her finger moved in the moonlight, her musket shattered in the moonlight, shattered her breast in the moonlight, and warned him with her death, he turned, he spurred to the west, he did not know who stood, bowed with her head over the musket, drenched with her own blood, not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew green, to hear, how best the landlord's daughter, the landlord's black-eyed daughter, had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there, back he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, with the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high, blood red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine red his velvet coat, they shot him down on the highway, down like a dog on the highway, he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat, and still of a winter's night they say, when the wind is in the trees, when the moon is ghostly gallant, tossed upon cloudy seas, when the road is a riven of moonlight, over the purple moor, the highwayman comes riding, riding, riding, the highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn door, over the cobble he clatters, and clangs in the darkened yard, he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred, he whispers, to and to the window, and who should be waiting there, but the landlord's black-eyed daughter, best the landlord's daughter, blading a dark red left nut into her long black hair. Oh, God, yeah. I feel so good.

Oh, God, yeah. Oh, my God, it was so wet. You hear how wet that is? Oh, my God.

Oh, where's the off button? Oh, my goodness. Oh, where are the best romantic poems? Always tragedies.

I don't even know if you understood a damn word I was saying. Oh, but hopefully you got to hear some of the poem. It's a beautiful poem.

I really enjoyed that. By the way, if you guys have anything you'd like to hear me read, let me know. I will happily take requests.

Anyways, needless to say, I am starting to feel better. This is the first one I've gotten to do in well over a month, because I've been sick and in the hospital and all kinds of stuff. So I felt really good.

It was really, really fucking needed. I hope you enjoyed it. And I hope you learned a little bit about fun classic poetry.

Romantic poets are the best. Don't worry, more coming soon. I also picked up a copy of The Lady of Shalott and a book of the hundred best poems of all time.

And, of course, a whole book on metaphysical poetry, which doesn't sound like what you think it is. Metaphysical poetry just means it's like hyperbolized description. But there's a lot of really, really good reading in that that I think would lend itself well to this dynamic.

So I look forward to doing that for you. Okay, I'm going to go clean up this mess and then maybe I'll do some other recording. I hope you enjoyed that.