In the night clubs
for hours she plays;
crowds of ***** drunken men
staring through the stale tobacco haze.

Alice, her name is -
not that a woman's identity
is useful in a decrepit place like this...

Black silk tights
smothering her luscious skin,
the fabric cups of her bra -
faded from the light, slightly too thin.

She's wasted,
grinding her body across oily bars -
a single lost sliver of gold
shining bright, caressing the jealous stars.

And it's escapism that she seeks,
but it's grief that she gets,
for the door to her fantasies
is sick addiction to *** -

in her tired mind
bodies, erotica, sweaty flesh;
indulgence of the black arts
shoots her to high, ecstatic stardom -
so why not join Alice

in her secret garden?