Jack Harvey writes

At the Whorehouse

The world's best available playgirls,

in brief, the duchesses of delight,

at present at leisure, waiting

waiting in the whorehouse,

garter-belted gum-chewers,

sitting on their asses

like bored kids in classes,

tits awry and

passing time chit-chatting,

for a price

will now be ready

for large-folio labors

on your behalf.

Is your desire the

best standard debauch

or less simple in taste,

an afternoon in an arbor

under Madame de Sévigné?

Or scholarly with

ten thousand props on stage

or in your fantasizing head,

the fully perverse.

Whatever, sweet friend,

you will pay and

you will have it.

But regard and remember

as you leave

your petite death-bed,

sated and serene,

plebeian or patrician,

you, too, on the wild-maned

horsewomen of the night

suffered and conquered

and however quaint,

straining under the reign

of looming delights

and uberous splendor,

painted faces, sloe eyes, sweaty thighs,

however dirty and discreet,

gave to life what is life

and in your own careless loveless way

advocated creation.   

Salon in the Rue Des Moulins -- Toulouse Lautrec