by Michael Bettencourt

Created on: July 04, 2008

PEEPSHOW

Even though you walk straight, eyes up, you slink.
Those eyes take in each scheme played out in doors
and shops and bars and swear they're here to drink
in only what the locals do. No whores
for you, they say. And then you slip inside,
slip the charon one buck for four quarters,
slip down the styx hued red, find a door, then slide
into darkness streaked with sperm - such waters
of life - and slip the coins off waiting eyes.
The ruck of skins makes juices jump; such raw
denial of love is free enterprise,
the rule shucked off, brief taste of the outlaw.
When you leave you hitch up your pants, look straight,
detached. The damp underwear tells your fate.

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