Saturday, July 17, 2010

A Poem Called Shobar...Another Slam Piece

Darkened interior
Against the bright sun
It is hot...
And muggy.
I am dripping with sweat
As I walk inside.

It smells like ancient wisdom
And old pussy
Covered in dust,
And heartache.
The ancient stage
Looks like
Something from a movie
With mirrors
So old and worn
That sometimes
I can barely see
My reflection
In the dimmest light.
The pole
In the middle
Is ancient, too.
With years of grime
Caked up
At hands length
Feeling rough and bumpy
Leaving my hands
With bits of funk
From a thousand dirty strippers
The wood...
All around
Is old
And soft
Bending to the touch
Making indentions
With the pressure
Of nervous fingers.

The dressing room
Reeks of feet
And perfume
And weed.
Her floors are dirty
And wet with mildew and mold
Her walls are covered
With works of graffiti
The bright lights in here
Each and every flaw
That the rest of the darkness
Attempts to hide.

The clamour of girls
Talking, laughing
Putting on hair,
Make up,
And clothes
Rises in the smoke filled space
My heart
Is light
And buoyant
With prospects
Of the evening.

My pockets are
As full as my brain...
Flooded with heroin-
And warmth.
Several girls look up at me
Awaiting my arrival
They look at the depths of my eyes
And see...
They, too
Will soon be coming home.

Dressed and ready
Happy and high
I sit at the also ancient bar
Drifting back and forth
A couple
Of shots of Jameson.

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