Wicked Game

by Veronica L. Aguilar

The sweet horizon of that vertical pole
Lingers through her legs and slides between her thighs
On the gun-powdered metal,
The poison in her mind takes a stroll,
To Pleasuretown, here we all go!

The sweet candy eau de parfum,
In the air, the ribbons of the hazy cigars,
The hybrid of a bastard in the nostrils,
Tease the audience she didn’t wish to have.
“Listen up, listen up” softly to her pupils,
She shows her breasts as a visual aid,
Her calves glistening to the random lights,
Slowly gliding her hips to bring in the tips,
Following the music that turns on the pack.

The admirers in the corner asking for favors,
Not one but two when the Mrs. doesn’t show.
The ecdysiast on the tube watching their eyes,
Reflecting a frame that is imperfectly fine,
But ignore the fact of her wrecked sad eyes.