poetry cornered: “At the strip club”

Tits, asses, elbows, necks.

Women are women.

I’ve got nothing more to say
to any of them, while they have never had
anything to say
at all.

Dance around the pole, Lucite high-heels kicking through a litter of dollars.

Fat Asian loser, Fat Indian loser, Fat White crewcut loser. Bashful smiles of nerd losers, blushing redder than the hideous lights.

The vagina always looks like something half-finished and who’s to blame for that? The gaping asshole nearby.

I wonder what they clean it with.

(The pole, not the hole).

Stripper Windex?

I try to smell women over the music. Nothing.

Their skin is so smooth,
like wetsuits without zippers.

Red lights, blue lights, yellow lights, green lights, the music one big thumping seizure. Why has no one ever killed the DJ?

Too many tattoos, too many hair extensions, too many hard drugs, too many one-year-olds at home.

Souls like pancakes soaked in ketchup.

Take the fucking dollar
and get lost.

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