~
as she poses
for the boys
her irony is
on display.
the naked truth
not easily deduced,
it’s not just they
that's being seduced.
her looks they’ve bought,
no heart nor touch,
a stage, a pole,
for them disrobed;
“just leave your
money please!”
mum says, *“ladies
don't act that way!”*
but mum ain't seen
hard times like these;
*“com’on mum,
let’s get along...
you gotta know,
its juxtaposition!”*
behind bars,
for driving cars;
stolen sweets
were such a treat;
*“com’on Judge,
rich guys got
more cars than sense,
what the difference?
if i take just one,
for just a spin,
the only joy
i'll ever ride...
and besides, he
left his keys inside
my valet shack.
those miles and dents,
that i put on, surely
ain't deserving this.
sweet fruit was
hanging far too low
for my resistance.
not my fault, you know;
it’s juxtaposition!”*
he sits high atop
a silver tower,
set beside the ocean fair;
existence storied for
he climbed every floor.
they call them shares,
it's what he sells,
but this brand of
sharing ain’t
what his mamma told.
it's a shell game by
a different name;
for it's more his soul
that he has sold.
you could say,
*“for a song his soul
sells short sales
down by the seashore.”*
or, you could say
just what he says,
“it's juxtaposition!”
~
*post script.
what prompted this? the city in which i live has the dubious and insidious distinction of having the greatest number of strip clubs per capita in these United States; not exactly something to be proud of. and yet i realize there are many ways to sell one's soul.
truth doesn't have many sides; if something does, then we can't call it truth; for truth, like gravity can be called many things, but under any name we still fall...
and come up short!
but then... that's just-my-position!*
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
~
as she poses
for the boys
her irony is
on display.
the naked truth
not easily deduced,
it’s not just they
that's being seduced.
her looks they’ve bought,
no heart nor touch,
a stage, a pole,
for them disrobed;
“just leave your
money please!”
mum says, *“ladies
don't act that way!”*
but mum ain't seen
hard times like these;
*“com’on mum,
let’s get along...
you gotta know,
its juxtaposition!”*
behind bars,
for driving cars;
stolen sweets
were such a treat;
*“com’on Judge,
rich guys got
more cars than sense,
what the difference?
if i take just one,
for just a spin,
the only joy
i'll ever ride...
and besides, he
left his keys inside
my valet shack.
those miles and dents,
that i put on, surely
ain't deserving this.
sweet fruit was
hanging far too low
for my resistance.
not my fault, you know;
it’s juxtaposition!”*
he sits high atop
a silver tower,
set beside the ocean fair;
existence storied for
he climbed every floor.
they call them shares,
it's what he sells,
but this brand of
sharing ain’t
what his mamma told.
it's a shell game by
a different name;
for it's more his soul
that he has sold.
you could say,
*“for a song his soul
sells short sales
down by the seashore.”*
or, you could say
just what he says,
“it's juxtaposition!”
~
*post script.
what prompted this? the city in which i live has the dubious and insidious distinction of having the greatest number of strip clubs per capita in these United States; not exactly something to be proud of. and yet i realize there are many ways to sell one's soul.
truth doesn't have many sides; if something does, then we can't call it truth; for truth, like gravity can be called many things, but under any name we still fall...
and come up short!
but then... that's just-my-position!*
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