Business as usual

So now we sit there,
Half Moon, late Thursday,
halfway to closing time.
Burning fat and chewing midnight oil,
as if the three digit Mickey Mouse
novelty wall clock
(stuck at five past eleven)
would poltergeist it's broken ass
into motion again.

It's Niki's night at the coats
and Siòbhan behind the bar.
Works of intricate art, hips, legs,
circular seduction, 24 carat
carafe curves, robed sparse
and snug for sin.

Golden brown versus glacier cream.
Lolita sub flutter versus sultry come hithers.
All masks of course -
but free mental fuck meat
no more than able to sit slack jawed
feedback looped
to the devious angelic display.
Because really, who could look away?

So willingly, perfectly planned,
basking in the glow
of hardcore fantasies radiating
from every stool and table -
and let us bleed there
on the edge of divinity, drowning
desire in gallons
of whatever swill they pour.

But as much as imply to extend
visual leching to physical probes,
and you will leave within the minute,
broken finger and empty wallet richer.
A death defying sweet
succulent strawberry smile
and an kiss on the cheek
bidding you farewell - for now.

One might think that would deter,
but Half Moon, late Friday,
when Niki works the bar
and Siòbhan the hangers -
we're all back, broken, band-aided
for another night of this.

Irish girls know their thing,
while we know jack shit
and sing along.

// Kacper 1997 //