Here at this strip club,
where the seductive maidens of phenomena
undulate on the lap . . .. . . of our inconsolable loneliness—
Yes, right here,
in this painfully waxed
theatre of affection
we paid far too much to get into,
We call out to you!
Exaggerate our groping impulse.
so deep in this fog
of fantasies and pheromones
the whole universe starts to slide
around the brass pole
of our spine,
and our hearts finally become
to reach for the hottie
both sides of our skin.
Yes, that’s it, exactly here,
where the perky breast of pride
to our flat-chested humility.
in this factory of manufactured tension,
please help us
drool deep, deeper
past these prudish and filthy thoughts
like sticky glitter
the tingling nipples of now.
Oh beloved gyrator
of all g-string personalities,
what better place than right here
in this seedy establishment
for our one and only sin:
A note from the author: I see my poetry as a meditative catalyst. By pointing a spiritual gun at the head of the separate sense of self, my intention is to create a presence-arousing confrontation. How does it actually feel to be approached by this shady gangster called “otherness?” When we finally go eye-to-eye with this fellow— viscerally “get” the high stakes nature of walking his streets— our heart breaks and the once-mute and confounding world of duality starts to sing, “Are you made enough to be mortal? Are you sane enough to disappear?“
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