Brothel

In the dark corners of city streets like in our soul and morals,
Lust prices itself at the cost of inner or social quarrels.
Its murky, infected pools of pleasure with burning pains
Where loneliness bathes to wash away its cruel stains,
So again these cleansed men may roam the world which spits on them
Like broken glass where starving light turns each worthless shard to a gem,
Bitterly thankful to those they worship at night but by day Condemn!

These women who sold their bodies to lose their soul, like their client,
Damned beings of night: through each other’s need both lie compliant,
Connecting to each other by finishing one another’s incompletion
One misses the touch of sex, and she desires money’s liberation.
Both mirror each soul’s bitter faults: reflecting an ugly sin,
Which with time has seeped through them wrinkling and sagging their skin,
Their youth evaporated to show what wrong monsters they are within.

A guilt begins to spread through, is it for her child or for his wife?
No! His heart cries for his lover, dogging this escape from his life.
In that sore trade, a rush of pleasure comes in drop by drop
Squeezing, grabbing, selfishly using each other as a cheap prop
Twice over each is fucked, each touch, caress, unimpressive;
Now that rush has bloomed to pain, still she is submissive,
For the pay is worth her blood, which itself is tainted and corrosive…

That lover! The one he does not touch and dares not taint: his guilt next door,
That virgin angel, his virgin angel, his dream: the brothel’s whore!
It rapes his heart to hear his dream being used,
With that foolish thought, he himself is being abused,
But he will not let himself have her, he wants her heart not physique,
Her moans dagger and drag through to tare his soul, his tolerance weak,
So he tears into his old whore and she screams the pain he does not speak!