downtempo nights

 
she likes sex & chases it in the clubs & lounges, divebars that a girl
shouldn’t know about; sinister houses that stand mute along gaslight
cobblestones. she meets so many men, & every man she sleeps with
is another shot at love. that’s the mantra that excuses her sins.

sometimes she’s a noir movie harlot, accepting the hard kisses &
marks a stranger lays on her skin as barter for the sexual weapons a
woman uses to murder an easily seduced man when he thinks he’s
the Fast Gun in this bedroom opera. & sometimes she’s Blanche
Dubois, & calls it kindness.

she kept her skirts short, just a little, & her tops low-cut, to present a
tempting fruit basket (how’s a girl supposed to get attention?) her
dance moves & eyeliner & flash of a smile defined her alluring appeal,
& if it blemished her reputation, she brushed it off like the heartache of
an old song; what did men know anyway…

if she were well-read on de Sade, she would’ve agreed with his notion
that her destiny is to be wanton, she-wolf to an alpha, belonging to a
man for a cocktail, or a night. harbored in his den.

in the arms of a refined lover or a savage, she found her deliverance, as he
looked at her, looked everywhere except her eyes. kissed her with a mouth
that sucked, grabbed her & twisted her & abused her as if he owned her
heart. & if that’s what it took, she would give it.

this was the reverence with which she anointed herself:
a woman in general; a whore in particular.
she figured being lonely is okay, as long as she’s not alone…


(Art: Marco Patino)