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From the Dark of New Orleans

by V. Blake

there was a Bela-Lugosi-lookin' motherfucker
sittin' in the corner booth and stranded
haaaaaaaappily
behind a shroud of perfume, glitter and smoke
and being kept just alive enough
to empty his wallet into the creases
of a colombian lap dancer.
gyrations had coaxed the last pint
of non-septic blood in his body
through a few veins not smack-twisted enough to reject it
as this south american siren, less flesh than plastic,
received no help at all from whatever has-been heart
still lingered in this junkie's sunken,
dime-store-tie-wearin',
soulless fuckin' chest.

i could tell just by lookin'
at the midget servin' drinks to all the bourbon street rockstars
that i had wandered into a burlesque nightmare
i could only hope belonged to someone else.
the music was just
a little
too
quiet
for anyone to get comfortable;
the debauchery just a little too
e     n     t     i     r     e
for anyone to survive the way out.

there were pictures of naked women on the walls.
i remember wondering
what the fucking point was.

03/12/2012

Posted on 03/12/2012
Copyright © 2024 V. Blake

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 03/12/12 at 05:54 PM

It's like The Cramps on acid, and that's saying a lot.

Posted by A. Paige White on 11/03/12 at 03:23 PM

This poem was vivid enough to make me GLAD I've never walked the wild side of the streets of N.O., for sure. I adored heading down to New Orleans to "people watch" but always did it from the lighter side and they usually had most their clothes on. Cafe Du Monde with Cafe Au Lait and Beignets our preferred indulgences. Actually Halloween in the Quarter dressed up as an angel and the devil was our most memorable and fun trips... Thanks for a well written comparison trip. Truly enjoyed it.

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