Debonair cunny, quiver and drum.
Poised in the hungry window, flames
grappling heavenward to either side,
to frame the silhouette’s raunchy twist
and shrug. Gilded phallus, snug in its
casket of porcelain, enshrined in wallpaper
scallopy to the touch of the curious and the
drunk. Red walls like an eyelid’s membrane
pulsed sudden with an irrigation of blood.
Wine is the popular substitute, to speed the
flutter, invisible antenna tickling brains
and cocks and the peach-plump lips of the
warren, alighting now from alcoves and catwalks,
bushing languid from booths and hutches
like Doomsday fringed and incorruptible.
Within the walls of this our tacky palace,
burlesque strips down to an exit sign,
and every child is now fair game.