sitting here
staring at this
blank screen
the keys
biting my fingers
like bitter whores
and this chair
playing my ass
like a worn out tune
on a cheap jukebox

phrases and words
dance behind my eyes
undulating on
a disco stage
up and down a brass pole
mocking my hunger
with a teasing singsong:

"there is no inspiration
in the champagne room"

if i were brave enough
i would run up to the stage
and grab a fistful
of it
squeeze it
lick it
rub it on my face
and run out the door
with a hot hand
musky cheeks
and sticky sweet lips
just some fuel
for a masturbatory fire

the song is over
and the words turn cold
and do a black cat stroll
back into
their place
where they will wash up
dress themselves
as something else
and leave me cold
emptiness in hand
with the screen
still f***ing blank

poema interruptus