At The Nightclub
Poem By Shimanta Bhattacharyya
A shaking head with a shock of shaggy hair
Tumbling down in cascades to the shiny breasts
Mesmerizes the young. While the old who dare
To sit right up in the front row with their guests
Quiver in a sudden spasm of cold fear:
(Ah, perhaps they cannot bear the strobe-lights’ glare
On their faces!) and retreat into the rear.
Hungry ghouls swoop down on them and the blood sings
In the decaying mire of stiffening veins.
Automatic hands touch up nymphs in the wings
That dazzle the poet in his newfound pains—
Who, despite a stab of feeling in his loins,
Stubs out his libido (among other things) :
And quits Abaddon in a jingle of coins.