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Sure, you saw the sign on your way in
when you were watching the sway of her hips from the street;
you didn't miss the rainbow fairy lights,
the stripes on the flags whipping next
to the window, but you're special,
don't they know? Your dick is special, game-changing,
turns "nos" into "yesses," and you don't think twice
that these colourful fags will bounce your fine ass
right back outside, 'cause they'll be too busy eyeing it.

See the sleek dancer in the silver skirt -
she always waits to show her spine
until she finds herself
in such a situation -
unfamiliar hands settling warm on her waist,
beer-breath in her face, Dance with me, Doll,
blowing out her patience like a candle,
saying, Baby, let's play.

You almost laugh when he steals your next line -
You'd be prettier if you smiled more,
but if he knew what it takes to make her smile
he'd run and hide beneath hastily-made excuses.
You saw her brush him off and thought you'd take your shot -
must be someone here to her taste. If not the last
luckless lover boy, then maybe you? Who knows?

You cut into the dance, feeling like showing off,
but this isn't some sophisticated matter
where you can lick your way out of trouble
with a silvered tongue, trying to count your way
to the center of a goddamn Tootsie Pop;
no manners will avail you.

Take it from me - the worst place in the world to be
is here in her line of sight,
a wick trapped flickering and failing
in the blazing heart of her attention
after you've - good lord, the nerve! - demanded it,
palm sliding down to cup her ass.

So another fiver changes hands between her flock of doves,
paper rustling like feathers,
another round of shots clatters glassy on resin table tops,
cooing laughter behind clasped hands.
They circle you like a pride of lions,
bright teeth making them so much prettier, and you wish they wouldn't -
the way they're watching you like you're prey, and isn't that
such a new sensation?

Smile, says the silver skirt. Don't you want to smile for me?
Knuckles kiss your face, and you missed the ring she was wearing
and the one to match on the elegant blonde behind the bar.
Blood tastes just like whiskey, with your face caved in;
gasoline feels like sweat, damp clothes clinging,
was it always this hot in here, or is it just you?

The night goes on and on without you, like it did before
you had your bright idea, and we bacchae dance a bachata around the ashes,
the pulse of the night reminding us we are fearsomely alive,
despite all the dead and dying things our bodies are made of.
Everything else is vanity, and you are just

so

much

smoke.


Iron Noder 2020, 22/30

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