Best Exotic Dancer Poems
Do people think you are sleazy and bad,
since the day you replied to that want ad?
The words were in black and white, and plain.
“No Experience Necessary, We Train”.
This job is not what most women would like to get,
However, it pays the bills and keeps you out of debt.
You live in a nice house, and drive a Corvette.
Of all the occupations anyone can seek,
there are not too many paying two grand a week.
They hired you for what came naturally.
Men easily discover your great beauty.
You have the looks of a centerfold in a magazine.
Your dancing in the club makes quite a scene.
A fight with your old man made him pack and go away.
He left you and your child unexpectedly one day.
You were desperate and needed a job right away.
It seems nobody was impressed with your resume.
Other employers apparently could not be convinced.
So many places only wanted experienced.
When you are dancing in the club each night,
men from all over think you are a delight.
Scantily clad, you erotically tease.
This is how you gather your gratuities.
Some men get obnoxious, and a bit out of hand.
Enforcers appear to take a stand.
A small team of bouncers comes out to greet.
The mashers land in the middle of the street.
Never mind what people think is wrong or right.
Many men like me will be seeing you tonight.
HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY
Her hand’s swan-like dance,
ivory shadow puppets
romance. Hungarian rhapsody.
The musician sans existence
as emotive fingers move
imaginary marionettes
with splendiferous precision.
Drama drops onto piano keys
occasionally taking a gentle stroll
then in sensuous sway, sashaying
like an exotic dancer. The musician
plucks and plinks as if
with chameleonic charm, like an
angel playing a harp.
Her fingers fast walk the keyboard
then resound tremulous keys.
(The audience swoons, spooned
by a rapturous torrent that enters
the heart, strokes and kisses
the yearning flesh, like the taste
and feel of brandy, burning and
tantalizing in breathlessness)
The musician’s slender fingers
now strum along in gaiety, like
paramours on the streets of Paris,
Springtime in the air. Palms nearly
rest upon silent keys as if two lovers
lay back upon a bed with puffs of smoke.
Dawn’s crescendo, with peaks of happiness
reside upon streets of ebony and ivory.
Life’s serendipitous monologue begins
once more with foreboding or adventure
or both. Is there loneliness upon this crest
for what has happenstance brought,
are they star-crossed? Do we see the sun
and the moon racing through their pulse —
days of birth and mourning?
(The blond marionette in concert black
seems to be mesmerized or hypnotized
by the muse of music. She’s like a dream
on a performance stage. Practiced in
illumination of flame. She releases the arrow
and the audience brightens up like a chandelier
with clinking and brilliant crystal pieces)
Happiness once again but with ferocious fervor
sends the keys to a heavenly place - to ears,
to mind, to soul...a cheer of a great parade,
and then the shivering of climatic peak,
followed by a lullaby of dreams - we imagine
a newborn wrapped up in a life well-lived.
The darling gal still doesn’t give up the ghost
but plays and plays...can you hear the needle
stuck at the vinyl’s end...spending all love gives?
Only the Creator Himself can lift the arm and
carry the musician still incubating all her charm.
3/19/2018
E very movement she makes
X rated
O nly a teen
T hrust from her home
I n retribution she
C lads herself in scant attire
D ances seductively to please
A ny man who will boost her self esteem, but
N ever
C hooses to
E xit with those who gaze longingly
R emains a temptress beyond reach
The crude beast of my future
I know I will never be super
I cant make honors
so my life will by shattered like the trail left by bombers
I try too hard
to make my life good
to make my sure I wont live in a junkyard
from the second I was born I would be told I could
I could do anything I want
I could say anything I want
I could believe whatever I want
And it is as if life is making my life miserable by all of its taunts
The truth hurts they say
That luck will eventually come my way
School is a pit of destruction that crushed dreams more than it creates them
cause there is now way I can get my GPA, SAT, MCAS, or RPMs hight enough.
I love learning but hate being graded on the right answer.
There is more than one right answer and if if it doesn't fit in your ideal world
I will just have to become an exotic dancer
Cause I want to change education not become enrolled.
By, Brennan Gunster
There once was a couple who lived a peaceful unit until one day they designed to have a mystery party. Little did they know it will turn out to be the real deal.
It all started when the guest arrived with bong.. A gunshot they heard. The couple looked at one other and asked "Did you hear that? Did you change the plot." They both said no and went ago with it. Little did they know there was cold blood on the floor. Harsh killing, shooter on the loose and no one knew where he lurked.
Could be Wade the butter, could be Billy, the chef that always carries a knife in his suit? Could be Sue the maid, Sugar sunny the exotic dancer, or could be the happy couple? Thunder lurks booming sounds like if its was coming from the inside. The lights turn off and everyone shouts now no knows where they will end up. Feelings of fear and smell of blood in the air the lights turn and the suspects and killer all in the same room.
Flames were rising blames flying claims thumping but one one screams. Stop! Stop! Stop! Lets figure out what happened. Clues to the sense she had a gun in her hand was pointing at her but the gunshot was right through the heart. There was no letter to say it was a suicide. Meaning only thing there was murderer on lose but everyone was a suspect at this point.
Everyone started asking questions Could be you? Could be me? Who killed Sue the maid?
Everyone gather together just one person was out the group. He feeling guilty and guilty he was. The lights flickered like if they were winking at the him. Nervous- very very dreadfully nervous had been and is. He breaks down into tears. "Okay, okay!" It was me, said Wade." But she asked me to. She was my life. She was my wife. What could I have done? Sue was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had one day one day to live. She took out a gun. A gun out of her bag. She took it in her hand and she took mine as well. She said goodbye my love and pull trigger I know I didn't pull the she did, But the guilt was growing knowing I saw it all and I didn't call for help knowing she would be suffering through the night.
"I am weaken in mind but not by spirit, I hope she forgives me. I am calling the cops I have proof of what I am saying its true. Now its time to let her go. Moral of the story is it wasn't a murder but a mystery in a way a person that knew it was her time to say goodbye.
To you Arabic might sound like
Can't get your mind around sound
That dances on the tip of a tongue
Like an exotic dancer,
Like can't trust words that rise
Up from the back of a throat
Like a growl-
Might sound like alarm bells
Going off like-look!- a foreigner-
What if he blows up the plane?
To me... it sounds like an old friend
Whose name you almost remember,
Like my best friend's father
Calling her name with an accent
I didn't notice for years-
Like Amr Diab, since his music
Is awesome-
Like you can say salaam
To any Muslim in the world
And he'll greet you as if he is
Your brother...
What sounds to you like-
Satanic chanting?-
To me sounds like the words
Of a prayer...
Sounds like a love poem,
Sounds like a lullaby,
Sounds like salaam
Means peace.
She is scantly dressed as she twirls and dances
she dances on a raised platform with eyes staring
Her clients mostly male partaking lagers and beers
Her job involves dancing and teasing these clients
In her eyes lies a dazed look like shes high on drugs
She told her mama she had found work in the city
After many years of empty searches she is working
After many nights of sleeping on an empty stomach
A friend introduced her to this and the money is good
On the good nights some clients are very generous
She recalls the way her Godly mother thanked God
She hadn't given her mother the specifics of this job
She knows this isn't what she ought to be doing
She is trapped in a job she is really unwilling to do
Her clients offer her money tucking it in her bikini
She recalls her childhood as she swings on that pole
Never in her childhood could she ever have dreamed
She would end up becoming an exotic pole dancer
Dancing as she was born as gentlemen cheered her on
Never in her wildest dreams had she seen this coming
I stand, waiting, out of the dappled sun light.
Listening to the hollow timpani that is my
stomach, the adrenalin coursing
through my chest, telling me 'its time'
My neuronal switch 'clicks'. I am no longer
inert, I am hunter. I have smelled the air
and read its menu. I have stretched life
back into my stagnant limbs
The smell is strong, close. A young doe
stands on the edges of her grazing family.
Young, healthy, unseasoned. When I pounce she
will Freeze. Making the kill easy. She will be easy
I stifle a memory. I have lost so many on the hunt.
Sometimes, I get too close and they scream, causing
agitated stares, that force me back. Back to my
hunger.
Twenty tries since my last kill. Twenty times I have salivated at
the thought of my hunger being satisfied. My preening delayed ,
like a peacock whose feathers no longer meet the expectation of
a mating ritual.
Slowly. Slower than slowly. Time no longer exists for me,
or for my kill. I skulk, each foot testing its ground before
being planted down. Hips sway low from side to side,
like an exotic dancer. Both of us earning our living.
My heart rips through my own blood, ejaculating it into a
bursting surge. Now is the moment. There will be no other
moment. I lunge, connecting with flesh. Soft flesh. Power pulls my victim
to the ground. I smell the sweet sweet smell of metallic ooze, dripping slowly,
like molasses from a wooden spoon. I hold my kill, turn and drag her away
Her family still graze, unaware of their loss. Unconscious of
my facile victory. Time soon enough to savour their haunted calls
And what of my kill? Picked up like so much road kill. Just another unsolved
homicide to add to my growing file. And what of me? I am once more content
to wait for another sound to grow deep within my soul. For I am Tiger, Hunter.
I am God!
Leanne was born on a farm
But only had one arm
She was a very special gift
That is why she is called TuftyTift
Because she has such a special gift
It allowed her to see through the mist
She had a calling from above
On one cold dark morning
She was told she was born to be an exotic dancer
all because her favourite reindeer is Prancer
She followed her ambition
and won the competition
Let Leanne EnLEANNEten you
****Dedicated to James Bagley****
An exotic dancer billed as Tina
Used to writhe on stage like a hyena ~
Today Tina has four kids
She mustn't do what she did ~
Now 'Mommy' performs the Macarena
Blinking Cursor
Why do you taunt me so?
A hungry hatchling eager to eat from my nest of ideas
An exotic dancer alone on a white stage— taking text for tips
I cannot walk away I am drawn to your blinking body
Hypnotized by the deformed piano key daring me to play suicidal notes of an unknown tragedy
Revived by the flat line, black and brave against a pasty piece of paper resuscitating my imagination
A weak Samaritan to the beggar that bothers me for change; and correction of my written work
My lonely lover waiting to make literary love on plain white sheets
The hero that rescues all my forgotten memories
Essential to the healing of my sanity
So why must you taunt me with endless possibilities?
Horror Story.
Wife’s gone to bed, there’s a spooky sound
Still scared of the dark when no one’s around
I hear her snore in the room above,
A reassuring growl, is just enough
In the film a killer is stalking
All the lights off, no one’s talking
Turn on the lights, an involuntary scream
Has no affect on those in the scene
A glint of a knife, raised in a hand
Bet she regrets this one-night stand
I know, I know, it’s only acting
I could tell, the kind she’s attracting
I’d have given her really sound advice
Forget the murderer, find someone nice.
But no, he’s here, no is not the answer
She’s an undercover cop, not exotic dancer
The tables are turned, during the struggle
I sneak off to bed, give the wife a cuddle.
David Cox 17/02/23
She arrived on time to killed
With a king’s man and god’s women
In blue, the color best for a seized mole
a hat in head, tri-corner, she liked
warriors were still awaited there yet today
but not for Mata Hari's lustful moves or skins or carves
even she waves a kiss, blindfold
and bid to die
[Margaretha Geertruida "Margreet" Zelle MacLeod (7 August 1876 – 15 October 1917), better known by the stage name Mata Hari, was a member of the Frisian minority from the Netherlands, and was an exotic dancer and courtesan who was convicted of being a spy and executed by firing squad in France under charges of espionage for Germany during World War Wikipedia]
In the morning I take heed, I need my fix…
Running around like a headless steed, I start to mix…
Just an ambient aphrodisiac, my tantalizing tea…
A dormant astral amnesiac, in a matrix reality…
My deficit hyperactivity starts to mourn, I need my stimulant…
Relying on prescription worn, a narcoleptic nilpotent…
Looking for my performance enhancer, I strike a pose…
I turn into an exotic dancer, where are my clothes?
I’m an electrical euphoriant, just plug me in…
A vexing viral variant, a sinister seductive sin…
A deprived dopamine, searching for neural transmission…
My effusive endocrine, in a rambunctious remission…
In my magnetic resonance imaging, chronic pain in depression…
Where dimensions are diminishing, I’m open to confession…
Please unplug me from the world, time to disappear…
Cover me within a comfy curled, take away the fear.
April.07.2019
Your Amphetamine
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausin
Joanne the willowy vixen
Willing and welcoming
Dancing on the pole
Writhing and gyrating
Erotically cavorting
Like a gracile courtesan
Suppliantly performing for the clientele
Of dirty old men and drunken letches
Debasing herself for meagre reward
In seedy surroundings
Selling herself to wealthy businessmen
With her nakedness she begs
For more paper currency
She calls herself an exotic dancer
But she’s no better than the geisha
Who satisfies a Mikado’s libido