Sunday, November 27, 2005

Burlesque Nights and Fireflies

reminded of my grandmother as I slink around this sultry bar
peering through windowpanes, slowly losing control of the vehicle, drifting off the dock at the end of their street, pregnant again
he was right about the car crash
someone was on fire, but that’s not enough
you learn these lessons after a few stiff drinks and solid dialogue
none the less
this woman is amazing, there aren’t enough eyes on her
dancing as if an albino constrictor gently wraps around her waist
a tongue tickle across her naked shoulders
bathed in dollar bills, as the musty blood red light plays blackjack on her dreams
house wives, horned toads, all the kids "not" in costume gather favorably at the bottom of her twisting feet
craving, mentally caressing the silk of her skin
enlightened and taking notes
accusing, burning holes in her back as she gyrates away
when its all over and robed, she tells me secrets
vagabonds filter through doors, spilt onto this broken town, pinned beneath the smog of night
retiring, turning homeward, if one still stands in their minds
Sandra D flipped Betty Page, fucking confusion into the briefcase of a husband behind his cubicle
while street corner shoppers stumble fearlessly through vomit down dark alleys to their favorite strip mall
the solitary souls holding their own hands, admirably indulging in a mess of masturbation
dances alone
in her clothes

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