I’ve had it for the night
The club is smoky, the vibe less tight
Than certainly I would have crafted
She is boring, probably bored
Hasn’t heard me the first time
So I shout over the music
The tune is called
Monosyllables Affirm The Humdrum
To which she says Oh
and nods
Chagall 2016
A slow dance,
Friday night,
hands on hands,
thigh to thigh,
shadow me,
as I slide,
to the left,
stutter-step,
reverse right,
you got it,
feel the beat,
hold the sway,
rock the hips,
shoulder pops,
small circles,
tight rhythm,
subtle rhyme,
you whisper,
Portuguese
in my ear,
in our veins,
on the floor.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I run and slide
on scuffed black shoes
worn smooth on friction-
less wood, like a hover-
board,
slit through the curtain
drop dead in the spot,
in the foot-
lights loose-
hipped, baggy-
pant, vulgar
drunk enough
to know that
soon I’ll need another,
to pace it,
let’s face it,
sometimes ain’t enough,
to the edge,
lovely dance
bald ladies,
body-lingo,
candle-
la-
bra-
less-
la-la.
touch it,
so hot,
they sizzle.
When Wok gets hot,
she drizzles.
Sounded like you said that your name was Anastasia?
Taurus.
You?
Have you ever screamed in vain?
Too deep.
Three-deep
at the bar,
in the sea,
amoebae;
so easy to tap into that,
but why?
should I buy
another,
or just call it?
On the street, I walk
in the gutter, on cobble-
stones laid,
centuries ago, bye,
a man long dead,
at a time when you could see
clear across Manhattan,
river to river.
Night-sweet,
early-cool,
morning air blows through;
stripteased broken bottles
to soon cede right-of-way
to incense,
and cleansing sweep.
What did Hevenus call it?
Indeed: petrichor.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
