A Poem by Steelwine

This is not a brothel, he says


Over wine as cigars turn to ash,

As neon signs dim down to red,


And faded girls count all their cash.


This is something more exquisite.


The radio hums an old song

Different from how you remember it:


The notes fall flat, the tune’s all wrong.


But hey, look now, we can pretend


That the neck they kiss isn’t yours;

It belongs to a poet, in the end,


You tell yourself behind closed doors.


Everything’s what you think it seems.


Beneath red velour and sheets bled through,

You close your eyes to live the dream


And feel it take the light from you.

© 2015 Steelwine

Author's Note

4 stanzas of Goethe verse.

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Added on February 25, 2013
Last Updated on September 26, 2015
Tags: brothel, sex, red, prostitute, prostitution, realism, naturalism, erotic, song, sound, color