back dimples were once precious indentations guarding
the base of his spine--of her spine,
moving up and down
with their partnering buttocks for each step of the strut.
now, accompanied by stretch marks and cellulite,
i think little physical defects are sexy, don't you?
they lose their original effect,
soon gone for good.
for example,
take his chipped tooth, her chicken pox scar,
or the hairy mole on his upper bicep.
the guitarist strums his guitar for the strumpet.
years are bearable for both
when they are able to strip bare the body.
the metallic triangular cover of her G-string
is slowly pulled down by the thumbs and reveals another
triangular cover, bushy, of the wet groin,
some like the pull of hair by teeth, grazing the field.
differing textures appease the wet appetite.
unless the audience is rather drawn to smooth loins.
like those of five year olds. that can be remedied
with the ole Venus razor.
no shame there.
history tries to erect myth, set it in stone
--to enforce a nature behind the moving picture
of the woman taking the pound, pound
screaming oh, yeah and loving the crowd.
i like the crowd, it makes me feel alive.
--as if power could be bestowed
from spectators to spectacle.
history belongs to the phallus,
making it a hard force to swallow whole.
this is real interaction between artist and audience;
audience entering and coming
into/inbetween/fullforced
onto canvas.
its milk has long turned sour,
but with a jeering crowd:
"chug! chug!"
the doing it becomes more than doable.
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