Strip

A hundred and three degrees in Eiffel Tower shade we take a catalog the Latino teenager offers from the cache in his messenger bag and we know what he's selling before we flip thru

take yr pick yr woman man yr anyone
don't be shy about what you want
in Vegas you could

order a commie fistfuck at Lenin's feet
or a langourous carnal drift
in a chlorinated Venice gondola
some good ol' wham bam thankya
mam or sir in mock Central Park
like the carefree days before we knew
or don the mylar cape and mask you packed
to high priest a tantra fusion orgy
in a strip mall pharaoh's tinted glass tomb
choose your pleasure choose a name
any place any name-

and what if you'd like
the catalog pusher himself
the courier surprised
mistaken for his message
salesman sold
stripped to the skin in your nouveau faux riche
hotel room strewn with xeroxed sex ads
sating your inky prick your scripted cunt
with his own paper-cut body

how much will it cost
to pull him into the ring
from dream pushing to the fuck-numb fight
of the strip emptyabundant
he loves you; he loves you true
the croupier's son
and she loves you; she loves you true
Venus nearly willing
granting entrance every evening
while tourists check in to Camelot
and you can bet

a half hour's indifference
has a higher like everything else.