Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Watching A Stripper

Some say it's all about a four-letter word : love
longing to break free from lacerating lust's glove
or the other way round, lust lolling in linen trove,
beguiling mind and eye, the crow decked as dove.

Who was it who said (ah, dear old Shakespeare)
that lust's an expense of spirit in , oh dear,
a waste of shame? I say lust's not love's lair:
its desires not disciplined for union and care.

Don't ask me what it's like in the dark,
watching you strip, miming the gross and stark
scenario of sexual sin where you are the spark
which sets fire to and fans the lusty lark.

I am a man like other men, with libido
which often leads, as drink and blind ambition do,
to paths and pitfalls i dare not go
when sober and the risk and loss i know.

Our minders tell us it's all for Art:
that what we witness is but woven part
of a greater whole with moral to impart,
the hook to reveal a hooker's heart.

Aye, there's the rub--such dreams you tease
with now celebrated fancy and ease
may, as siren songs to returning Ulysses,
waylay the voyage to where home and love is.

If this, your latest pose, couples commerce
to Art, good luck. But I'd rather, for my peace,
not pay for the bawdy trip, seductive Rossana.
Better to watch Madonna mime the late, lost Evita


  1. A trek from The Bard thru Ulysses and unto Madonna, marking each jaunt with rhyme and reason, was indeed a test of sorts :-)