Dancer In The Night- Pole Dancer

The 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.

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more.

He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.
Vincent Moore

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Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more. He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published. In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.

6 thoughts on “Dancer In The Night- Pole Dancer

  • October 11, 2018 at 3:06 AM
    Permalink

    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.

    Reply
  • October 11, 2018 at 5:49 AM
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    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

    Reply
  • October 11, 2018 at 10:52 PM
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    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.

    Reply
  • October 12, 2018 at 6:00 AM
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    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.

    Reply
  • October 18, 2018 at 1:30 PM
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    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.

    Reply
  • October 18, 2018 at 8:41 PM
    Permalink

    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.

    Reply

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