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A Well Hung Jury
by Alexis O'Hara author info
Fancy dancers are a dime a dozen.
I know, I know , because I have mambo’ed with the best...
...you should say worst...
...of them.
Do you know how to recognize a fancy dancer?
It’s the smell. One whiff and you can tell.
Does the name Arthur Murray ring a bell?
I see you. I see you.
I’ll see you and raise you two. Upping the ante.
Waiting for the sound of panties to smack against the floor. Or.
Or the whining, fucking whining: please can I have more?
Why I oughta!
Why aorta
One hand tight around the waist,
I can still taste the sickeningly sweet aftershave.
How brave I was to tell myself I enjoyed it all.
Spinning tales so tall, I couldn’t see beyond them.
I gave you my heart on a silver platter.
It don’t matter. It don’t matter.
And all I got back was a box fulla feces, cash on delivery.
I even tipped the boy.
Waitress!
I’ll have the steamed cream sandwich, and a side order of hamflakes.
But, I’m so bored. Chewing, masticating, swallowing -
The whole digestive process is such a drag.
So, could you just throw it directly into the toilet? Thanks.
See, I’m already full of it. I ate my heart out for breakfast.
And I suspect it’s expanding, expanding as we speak.
In a week or two I’ll shit it out, maybe even fish it out.
Put it in a tank with the other shanks of meat I’ve accumulated over the
years.
FANCY DANCERS ARE A DIME A DOZEN!
And they will inevitably tell you that they are artists.
Interested in concepts and context but never reality.
Most of them wear their hearts on their sleeve.
Well, I for one am always relieved to meet an amputee.
Because he or she will not talk my ear off about their childhood and
insecurities.
Head full of lead, heart of stone,
I vaunt to bee aloone.
But the meter is ticking, I must spend my time licking wounds and other
things.
Making nice with all the movers and shakers and potential connections.
I made my bed of organs,
Keeping up the circulation, mindful of the ventilation.
And I lost my mind...
Was it my mind?
- in the left ventricle, I mean vestibule.
Slammed up against the coat hooks, indent back of the neck.
At the time my heart was in my boots, ready to be trod upon.
G’head jump in, jump on, it’s elastic.
Dance, baby, dance. Take a chance. Give the gift that keeps on giving.
Hate and despair, who knew love could be so hard?
Hardly. Why I oughta, why aorta.
I am just another dirty plotte. A plot of land.
A place to lay one’s hands. Not even skin, just angles.
Jutting and strutting. Forever attempting the task of forgetting.
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