BACK TO THE WORM

It was the kind of club
where old punks go to die
and young hipsters go to get beaten.
The stage was risen,
the bartender short,
and the audience high.
She had a butterfly tattoo
on her face
and a butterfly blade
in her boot.

She sang a song
about a funeral for a lamb.
Very touching.
Quite elegant.
Nobody heard a word.
They were lost in their own little adventures
just like me.

I wanted to take her down
far away from there
into the bathroom stall
where fluorescents would allow me to see every unflattering aspect and discriminating detail
where I could explore and experiment
to my heart’s content.

She stayed on-stage
and sang about the King’s Cabbage
or Mick’s cavities
or pies in America.
I couldn’t tell
and couldn’t tell her
so far was she
what I wanted to do to her
and wanted her to do to me.
In the din
of that darkened den
she couldn’t see me at all.

I waited for her to descend
so I could approach
but, by then,
the magic of the moment waned
and my wife had walked in.
“What you up to?” the missus asked.
“Nothing,” I replied,
as that butterfly tattoo morphed back into the worm,
“I was just watching the show.”