I'm fifty stories up
screaming at the moon over Vegas,
ROARING. with a whiskey in a fist.
sprawled out before me, like an eager gift
for my mouth
licks it up, laps the juice off the neon signs
totally nude
she asks to join me. and then I do.
I have no use for these blaring lights
or your fascination
with sex. you all
will find that there is muchness buried here.
tucked away in the ballrooms and in
the tattoo shops. where dancing turns
into affection, and affection
into love.
I only want to chew the stains off my
collar tonight
and breed
contempt for the girls
walking, heels in hand
their dirty bare feet
scraping the pavement.
Andrew Tipton
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