Bachelor Books

Off the swelled main roads,
those with state highway numbers,
dirty fountains supported by stone stags,
bookend a shop for bachelors.

Through the mirrored entrance
brown papered faces,
eyes angled high or low-

ly darting, become fixedly occupied
with wall crack inspection
in narrow yellow-lighted porn halls
tattooed by overripe desire.

Embossed genre signs hang
on rows of pressboard shelving
like lowbrow library call numbers
(licking Dewey’s decimals):

Automotive Encounters
Accident Victims
Black On White
Load-bearing Bar Matrons
Man To Man
Mutant Fetish
and
Straight Talkin’ Cowboys

Throughout darkened viewing booths
or plexiglas-divided Live Girl stalls
pistols, apologetic and unapologetic,
dangle or salute the fall-

ing away of lonely skin thirst and
the ramping up of bare flesh excitement.

Out among the rows of glass displays
full of vibe, flex and glow,
unwed men, collegians, and those rampant
fugue-staters with Viagra bloodstreams
wander about staring, grasping, gripping,

pressing a post-industrial disaffected love
cultivated and served up cold,
but at least it’s tactile and pungent
deep in a bookshop for bachelors.

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20 thoughts on “Bachelor Books

  1. Loved the “Vigara bloodstreams” metaphor…I’ve never been in one of “those” places before and you really captured the atmosphere, or what I imagine the atmosphere is like in one of them.

  2. Just reading this poem gives you the “flipping heck I hope nobody I know sees me here” atmosphere expected in such an establishment. Love the “Licking Dewey’s Decimals” line, very clever. Bought a smile to my eye.
    The Lonely Recluse.

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