Dancer In The Night- Pole Dancer
The Pole Dancer

Who dances among the bright lights
as the silver shadows sparkle through
rain drops, landing on his face and
sliding to lips that taste such bitter
sweet of memories that left deep
scars, yet comforting at the same time.
He see’s the neon sign beckoning
to come in, as the Barker squeals his
song come on in to be enticed and
entertained by pretty woman of
the pole and sit yourself down, dry
off while the heat from those naked
bodies entertain your thoughts,
and help the whiskey go down in
secret corners as you watch
others go down.
He looks up to this pole dancer with
grace like a panther she slides her
slinky sensual long-legged body
around this magical pole with
wanting eyes that pierce a poet’s
damp wet soul.
His lips are dry yet the whiskey
stings the cracks left there from
long ago while chewing them
huddled in a corner of his room
while mother was being beaten
into submission on her bedroom
floor with the broken handle
from a broom.
The days and years went by as he
climbed from the sewers of life
and streets of shame and needles
stained with leftover crack from
others who had died by their own
hands among the stack of piled
garbage left in back lanes
tossed to feed us hungry souls
lost in ourselves.
A poet once a Streeter living from
hand to mouth ate his way around
the fringes of the dumpsters closest
to the finest restaurants because
you see he was a connoisseur of fine
leftover appetizers entrees and
chocolate covered deserts that
patrons couldn’t stuff into their
fat wallets instead they left the
over’s to the Streeter.
He knew the first to grab or beg
for those waiting delicacies would
get through the night with belly full
and if luck would come their way
find a half emptied bottle of wine
to help wash it down with their
pain.
He rose to heights of brilliance and
mastered his trade after long hours
of midnight oil spent to climb the
ladder of success and be idolized
and patronized by peers for the full
recovery he made and reached,
lofty goals and shared his wealth
with humility and pride.
Yet this night walking in the rain
alone knowing where he had come
from yet wanted to be lifted up by
woman with the passion of dance
with busting, blooming, coy, artistic
form beauty, and this poet sat
dreaming in front of them while
knowing all the while money would
be given for the show and women
of this dance would leave and fill
their habits sniffing snow in the
darkest shadows from the pole.
He could smell the perfumes and powder
puffed upon their naked bodies knowing
and making men swoon and want to steal
a touch or two and not be caught and
tossed from this den into the wet streets
outside this neon paradise by their
hired goons.
Away from these women on the pole who’s
only interest was to capture your eyes
and have you dig deep and lay the
money down between their thongs
as they slip their fingers watching
you they slide them slowly down
to pull the dough so sensual
from their thongs to little
sequenced purses wrapped around
their ankles flashing like the neon
lights that brought him in to be the
watcher of these women on their pole.
He could buy the best of anything
yet the neon signs still draw him close
to be a watcher and a dreamer while
these women swirled and slithered
towards him sweating in his mind
while peeling off their clothes he
peeled off the hundred-dollar bills
for entertainment nothing more
a vision was to be that watcher
and remember all their moves.
So he could write a verse two
or three and build them up as
a poet can and leave to feel the
gentle rain wash away dreams
left with the women of the
pole on the streets of neon signs
and silver lights that pierce the
night they let the sunshine into
a lonely heart while remembering
a time when he had nothing but
the clothes on his back with
dreams of rising from the streets
and becoming a watcher in the night.
Thank you ladies of the pole.
© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.
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I have now read this piece 4 times Vincent. I find it one of the saddest, but yet inspiring poems I have ever read. I have in the past taken in a pole dance or two – okay that is a lie I would hate to admit how many. Just like the Streeter I have ridden those rollercoaster rides of guilt for surviving when others have not. Just like the Streeter I have seen and enjoyed the shadier side of life, but somehow found it within myself to step outside into the light and to enjoy the less shady part of the human existence. I think we all have that animal part of us that lust after that which takes no thought and just instinct. Not all are like the Streeter have risen above the street. I feel this piece you have written is biographical and I salute you sir for becoming the poet and good man that you are. On the lighter side the woman in the video was spectacular.
Thanks Kurt. This was somewhat biological. I remember them well. Mixed with a crowd I wasn’t always proud to be amongst. However it was a classroom of life and living in the often mean streets and seedy bars. It was all meant to be and make me the man I am today. A deep well of experiences in my life has groomed me as a very visual poet and I’m okay with that. Yes she is HOT and great, a winner in her class and talent as a pole dancer indeed. I watched her performance more than once my friend
A very emotive and sad piece, yet life can be gritty and this is real, as life gets. You are a master of emotions in black and white and all the shades between. Beautifully constructed and so emotive in its rendering. Wonderful work my friend. Take care Vincent.
Thank you Tony. Indeed it was a sad life with lots of heart pumping adrenalin rushes in between. Walking on the wild side certainly can be laden with unwanted surprises from time to time. I have no regrets, but sad for those who couldn’t escape that lifestyle for many sad reasons. I was one of the fortunate ones and moved on with my life.
Like you commented in Tony’s review, atleast you were able to move on. I agree wholeheartedly with Kurt, this may be one of the saddest stories I’ve read here, or period. Such a desolate, sorrow filled existence, I cant help but feel a certain sadness for you. This story made me shake my head in disgust at what was done to you or what you had to witness throughout your life. I said this in an earlier review but, real life makes for the best stories. And you my friend have a great one here. Great work.
Thank you Paul for your caring comment. Indeed to live through situations like the one I portrayed here is amazing. The dirty feelings, often wanting to run, leave, escape from demons in my life, yet too young, nowhere to run to, sticking by mom and siblings was more important. Having to participate in acts that I’m not proud of today often haunts my heart and soul. Yet I was a survivor and I’ve been able to help others through sharing my experiences such as these, I’ve often been told they were comforted, knowing that they were never alone.