Clubbed to Death

                              i. The Grind

Discontent with the discothèque, scandals
     of hot-heeled damsels wax circumspect, wet
     at the prospect of melting to drowning
     depths the platinum hearts of the cold men
     infiltrating their harem, raping them
     as they dance with abandon the only

     two dances anyone needs, known only
     as The Grind and The Get-Up-On, sandals
     come off as they come onto all of them,
     these fleet-footed temptresses getting wet
     as they bewitch the unsuspecting men,
     reclaiming dignity from hands drowning

     it, as if sweat, not tears, is what drowning
     causes them to shed, remorseful only
     when such cowards of unattractive men
     have succumbed to their own wave of scandals;
     under strobing lights, writhing bodies wet
     with bliss and with ignorance run from them.

                              ii. The Get-Up-On

Eating the garnish, blind harm follows them
     around the bowl of the room, sound drowning
     crowds in calls-and-responses dry lips wed
     to thirsting tongues spell and spit out only
     to show consciousness, while stupor scandals
     its forced rest into the steps such slow men

     thud when being clubbed to death by women,
     innocence on their breath disguising them
     in a scent so pervasive, their scandals
     are imperceptible until drowning
     their recipients in a stench only
     respectable gentlemen detect, wet

     curiosity allowing for wet
     failure as such ignoble herds of men
     are led by clouded heads to her, only
     to be beaten down; desires killing them
     off with their own medicine, they’re drowning
     potential husbands in shallow scandals—

     each goddess ev’ry woman, her scandals
     nothing but bottled emotions drowning
     whosoever foolishly opens them.