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
