Young Writers Society

they splutter The Old Lie into our
beer caked speakers at this open mic night,
every man with bohemian rhapsody splattered
down their tux and ties, every lady
batting mascara eyes like caves of vampires,
pushing fortune and pinching pennies
underneath the satin curtains of the table.

and here, we sleep.
the masquerade of discotheque lights equal
to the poundings of war from behind
general's darkened glass, as debates
pummel cardboard minds.
We dangle tilted shots of
Verdana and Georgia on the table legs,
cheap girls without a scrap of dignity on
their mounding flesh, only our whispers
that they are our prize, and so they hide
in the darkest corners of our lives.
more yet, we grapple for attention,
snapping wit as we peek up skirts and run
a nail down political hosiery. we see their
shoes tap, we throw their food back -

the silverware topples to sheath itself
in our anatomy artiste.