I (strangewrit)
Where were you?
In the lobby of a bank,
or naked on an afternoon’s sofa,
or waiting, and looking,
outside a quiet bar,
the private party already underway.
The farce of a slackened clothesline
belittled ongoing seductions,
routine as a phalanx of chauffeurs
smoking beneath a neon typo.
You thought, and were afraid
for thinking you saw him.
The man from the past,
who knew the you of then.
.
II (struggle session)
Centerfold, confessing on camera.
The city behind her, pinlit with torches.
Far away and shyly flaming.
Skirt an easily penetrable wraparound,
eyes gone almond with immodesty,
inviting rain, the mystery of the curtain
in repetitive movement, a flutter
for the man in the darkroom,
to synchronize the many pasts
made present in this now.
The menace and hang
of the diaphanous, the sheer
aquatic moment of the reveal,
lithe and laughing and suddenly
serious, my lily-tinted blond.
.
III (econometrics)
What’s the damage then?
The victims will tell you what.
If they are able.
Scarred faces in double profile,
in full-frontal, tattoos
scored from first to last,
the uniforms on the platform
neither for nor against.
At the first sign of violence
they’ll away and be gone.
.
IV (woof to breeder)
Alarmed by midnight’s jolt,
the sleeping party girls stir,
writhe half-heartedly,
the newly-monstered shadows
of the trashed hotel room
looming to shelter them from rain.
Aware that two floors up
there’s that nest of anonymous
female limbs, the nightclerk
still elects to sleep alone.
No cathedral, no mosque,
no temple will outlive
this throne, this nest,
this bed of girls.