Lights are low

Cast red ember reflections on

And in pupils of eyes.

 Always muggy, sweaty – a pressure

In the air.

Breathless, gasping for

Diamond shapes in stockings

Glitter on their eyelids.

An elevated self-confidence in

Their strides.

A few hours, one night only.

A week.

For silhouettes of testosterone

On silver poles and shiny

For musty men

Thinking nothing only, only

(Children back at home,

dark black bedrooms).

In their element

Down the notes fall

And tuck themselves into bras,

Or thongs.

Rent money

Lost and rent money gained

A circle of life and motion

Of ass.

Round like pearls

Trapped here in the name of



Author's Notes/Comments: 

I had an urge to write about strippers or strip clubs, probably because Pyramids by Frank Ocean was playing in the background. I get fascinated when I try to imagine what that environment might feel like, to the people that work there and to those that go (and why they do). Personally, pole dancing amazes me and I admire the women who just go out there and do expose themselves so confidently.

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