Pigalle Iv Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

By cell phone, near bright neon light,
or corner strip club's sleazy door,
to, fro, gad glow-worms through sad night.
Never ask them why or wherefore
forlorn, they set their sorry sight
with wary chatter and weary spite.

On call for all, in somewhat light
apparel to attract the more
each paints faint mirage of delight
ephemeral which most deplore.
In house or out, they story write
which makes dark reading few recite.

Unenvied, mo[u]rning, noon, twilight,
lit cigarettes, hearts, ankles sore,
strutting the street greet left and right.
Never ask them who they care for,
with rights in pawn through diverse plight,
wasted, worn, self-tortured quite.

Exploited, often blameless blight,
b[l]eached far from the social shore.
unless you [b]reach insight,
never ask them what they're there for:
though male manipulation might
be highlighted: bed, board and bite.

Some unemployment may incite
to seek relief. Most overdraw
their petty pittance flying kite
for bores who prettiness would paw.
Few rotten core are seen despite
blame hypocrites pour and indict.

Y chromosomes themselves ignite,
perverting innocence to store
for gain, for power to excite
or compensate libido poor,
who blackmail, tight rein run through fright.
None on set stage stays lily white.