On the Embarcadero

On the Embarcadero, winds carry clubbers' words

to me: sound of a satyr's desperation:

*maybe she'll look at me.

Maybe even with pleasure and not repulsion*:

the silent plea of devil-may-cry men ---

all blood and lusts, more beasts than heart.

Some swing blunt cutlasses that never cleave,

sip hypnotic wine from offering hands, unknown beneath a coverlet.

Others dance into the lacuna of their lives:

decade(s) of searching, yearning,

yoked like juments, under the mortal whip:

sad boys in need of love;

infatuation;

amity;

acquaintance;

lust;

pleasure;

a look:

anything.

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American

Notes: This is basically about clubbers in their 20s. All of them need real love, but will not say this or really admit it to themselves because of societal implications, norms, their peer groups, their worries about self-image, etc.
The continuing colons (:) at the end represent what they really are, how desperate the become. They are in need of love, but they will settle for an infatuation (a perverted form of love); if they can't get that, they'll take amity (friendship); if they can't be friends, they'll take being just an aquaintance; if not that, than lust; not lust, then even baser pleasure; if not base pleasure, a look; if not a look, anything, just anything at all will do.

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