There is this disrict we go and howl in,
allowing us to scream and go way down.
Relief for numbness of broken up skin,
I found a man who can handle the crown.
Once his rough fingers land upon my chin,
not a trace will remain of my nightgown.
Between bows and curtsies is the red light,
that flips my switch on every single night.
Some poet have beautiful eyes
Some poet drink other liquor to the gills
Some poet are known for their swearing
Some poet are good at fighting
Some poet spend money like it is water
Some poet beat their wives like boxers
Some poet like to eat starving their children
Some poet are the best at deceiving people
Some poet just go to a coffee shop and come back daily
Some poet brag about taking pills went to the Red Light District
Some poet scream getting wet in the rain
Some poet don't care if yell to save life.
Some poet say they prefer books to bread
Some poet are empty-handed on everyday
Some poet boast to be pure
Some poet are the richest in the country
Some poet are humming while peeing on the side of the road
Some poet cross traffic lights backwards
Some poet don't have smell like people
Some poet sell their conscience to write poetry
Some poet take pictures with bad chairmans
Some poets are.......
Amid her degraded,miserable life
in the red light area,
she hummed the songs
of the Hindi films.
Looking at her reflection in the mirror
she dreamt herself as the heroine
of a romantic movie
opposite her favorite star.
Sometimes, she copying the dialogues
and gestures of heroines
from the romantic scenes
of the popular movies,
and thinking herself
as a courtesan seen
in a popular movie.
These filmy,romantic thoughts
often comforted
her youthful life
in the red light district.
Do you feel it too
You know, the graying of Halloween
For several decades it was all the rage
for Sonny-and-Cher-like adults, whatever their age
Red-light district numbers sold like hotcakes
along with ghoulish getups for opulent jakes
Something happened though, can't put my finger on it
maybe it started with Covid, like EVERYTHING else did
as the government reminds us...
Do you feel it too
Halloween's lost her old zipperoo
Maybe the air is out of the balloon
~ for a bit
New Year's Eve in the town Amsterdam
Two Brits I met while staring at the pond
Holding beers and smoking rolled cigarettes
Speaking they said tonight you will be a man
This eve you will recall with a fond bond
And on we walked, drank, smoke, effortless
The Red-Light district we stumbled upon
My body tightened but the face I donned
Let three workers see me as generous
Farewell to my innocence, it was gone
The Brits disappeared, I am Shepard-less
In the moments before dusk
night in a struggle with the day
dreams they do say
dancing into reality
the red light district
flickers on high alert
she, backs into me
a soft velvet touch
embarking me involuntarily
to thrust
my chest closer
to those simple breaths
slow and so sweet
rendering me complete
here's where I dream
or so does it seem
a memory or want
to endow her my pride
an encompassing ride
stirring, echos in time
a morning of lust
urged to surface
thrive
brazen and bare
not coming up for air
spring undresses the moon
surrender takes many turns
lasting sips
soothe
If heaven is a rest for the imbeciles,
the banes of hell my portion must be.
If cloud nine is a bordello,
and the streets of gold are carved along the red-light-district,
then god must be a panderer.
Am I not already rewarded?
My woman is: an orange, perfect in the sun;
a watermelon, succulent;
a mango with sweet nectar;
a passion fruit, freshly plucked.
One woman is ecstasy,
two is hell’s gate.
A saphead is a glutton for pure virgins.
Lives foolishly forfeit for peculiar sayings.
Let not this bird fly,
for the two that is promised?
When god became a sexist,
it came to pass that man recreate himself, a lunatic,
and the woman he objectified became the dominant sex.
Covet not the splendor of paradise,
where the mansions in my father’s house are brothels
perfumed with the scent of intercourse.
A gift of seventy-two maidens
is an everlasting punishment.
Silly rabbit tricks are for prostitutes, made by establishment
daunted by economy, at night by the dawns early red light district,
watch the women give up their pride by the hour, lacking positions
star 69 your way back to daddy's touch, the reason your out here
remember sweat and business suits are cheap, just like the shoes you wear
little girls try to cash in, but silly rabbits tricks are for prostitutes
don't they feel guilty? I know because even their income can't buy a ticket to heaven
just a passport to hell, like their lipstick dreams are cheap and tacky, like
their fish-nets, are to capture their sorrow and release them to the streets they stalk
Curbside romance
Picture in a magazine
Leering at a beauty queen
Short shirts and dirty mack’s
Waiting for red light perhaps
A furtive glance
Curbside romance
Fake smiles through
Red violent lips
Faded faces worn
By times constant grip
High heeled whores
Strut like flamingos
On their way
To another nights work
Woman in a window
Peering down the street and
Meat in a butchers shop
Waiting to be eaten
Internal musing
Short shorts skirts and spike heeled shoes
In the Red light District of your town
On the darkened street corners
There's pleasures of the flesh to be found.
Blondes, brunettes and redheads
Working girls they are.
They earn their living selling flesh
To hungry men with expensive cars.
In the Red light District of your town
Law Enforcement lies in wait.
To persecute and to arrest
Using decoys as bait.
You'd think that the Police
Would have better things to do.
The streets are filled with criminals
That prey on me and you.
Cheap Motels and alcohol
In the Red light District of your town.
No matter what your looking for
Cheap Thrills do abound.
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