Those skinless belly dancers in clubs by the river, Dance in ways which make my foolish heart simmer, I flick the ashes from my mouth on them, Grim spotted flakes to decorate. Upon the eleventh hour call, Rising from my stained chair and to the bathroom stall, Where I let my mouth give head to the stone circle, Lucky for the absurd companionship of groans. Great men are always nurtured by habit and vice, To many this may seem like a wild perverse lie, 'Tis the truth so say the great men, As they feed from bottomless bowls of leeches. Delightful sounds overwash the air, Of men and women rutting after the sun, Clinging to each other, white buttocks shifting, Wearing a gauze of sweat and love's sweet smear.
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Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:32 PST