the nightclub stands
a hot coil in minus 20 weather
inside - coquettish dresses
meant for miami maybe
a burlesque show of overdone flirtatiousness
appeasing customers
accustomed to pin-up sassiness
glam dolls
caked up in make-up
too much skin shown for something-or-other
bitches caught on the scent
sniff testosterone as narcotics
too much reliance on wealth
too much ingestion of cocktailed filth
hitching up morsels of cloth to grind
the only move in the routine
involves a thrust of the behind
the feminine nowadays
no holding back
no grace
where are the others?
the expedition in baggy khakis
adventurers into the course
of wind and sand
reclining in billows
yards of fabric
concerned not with showing
what already seeps
aware of who they are
clothing off or on regardless
the ones who answer 'mind'
to the question of best feature
and whirl in fields of wheat
in draping sundresses
not corsets
the gentle maidens
and fierce goddesses
energized by the moon
she welcomes sun into her house
a host the likes of joan of arc
amazon tigress
high priestess of the tarot
not a fembot
pigeon twerker
bobbing coo
fun can live beyond the club
and whopidee-doo
bottles and a booth
keeper of dynamis, the key
knowledge of that which
hasn’t yet fully actualized
resides within this order
atoms fused like sand
into the hourglass curve
she births love into form
anoints the bruised
and callused feet of man
caresses with her hair
enacting all her natural care
demonstrates her own strength
no need to look for it in diamonds
indulges books
not clothing labels with her eyes
not bitchy, whiny
gossip queen of kitsch
a tribal queen
of shamanic art
fulfills man’s every wish
as long as it's aligned
to something more
than just her glorious behind
these jewels shine
inside each one of us
sometimes
at other times
we are just cunts
