Hitting Bottom Sestina (Tenderloin, Halloween 2005) by Chris LaMay-West
Hitting Bottom Sestina (Tenderloin, Halloween 2005)
I remember thinking, “Jesus, how did I get here?” as the cock
poked like some joke Tower of Pisa through the glory-hole.
This prick that I did not want to gawk at played peek-a-boo
with the porcupine darkness of the video both I paid a toll
to be alone in with my glass pipe, shame, and the choking
degradation the night’s misadventure brought to ghastly surge.
My thoughts drifted to the hotel where despair began to surge
as a latte-colored girl in the bathroom tucked her cock
and danced, awareness that I had been swindled choking
me as I watched the TV strobe grainy horror-films, a glory-hole
to shiny daydream of myself home, safe, silencing the giddy toll
of swirling masked hordes on the street below doing peek-a-boo.
I yearned for my vodka hoard, no trick-or-treater peek-a-boo,
a solitary space for the full fountain of my self-loathing to surge.
Instead I’d slunk to pock-marked streets to pay obsession’s toll,
levied by a muse descended from dancing-pole with hidden cock,
only unveiled in the hotel after we lit the meth-pipe’s glory-hole.
At first inhalation, glee turned to gore: headache, vomit choking.
I should have kept to creamy crack smoke, free from choking,
and sought a girl who didn’t need to hide a rooster’s peek-a-boo.
Maybe that would have staid the gorge spouting out my glory-hole,
technicolor fountains leapt from mouth to trashcan in gory surge,
head pounding like the hammer of evening’s gun ready to cock.
I burrowed out into the pit of night, seeking to avoid the bell’s toll,
and so strayed to the sticky lure of an adult booth rented for a toll,
alone until anonymous male member jabbed through, choking
solitary bliss. Though not my forte, I considered sucking the cock,
just to be polite. Instead, I lit. Endorphin-rush crackled peek-a-boo
until I felt steady enough to let the impulse to move surge.
Outside, some ever-evasive goal glittered in night’s glory-hole.
The empty street was lit by a psychic’s sign, a neon glory-hole.
Under the crystal ball’s baleful blink, I heeded destiny’s buzz-toll.
I slipped inside, to a woman whose work makes false hopes surge.
“You have a lot going on, but it will be okay. Evil encircles, choking
your aura. But your pure spirit cannot be destroyed.” Peek-a-boo
went a vision? Or just salve for my woe by words at half-cock?
I left, cock-eyed with disdain at my abiding lust for the glory-hole
of darkness and fear to let my dreams peek-a-boo, at fearsome toll.
“It will be all right.” I choked the words, as dawn began to surge.
© 2017 Chris Lamay-West
Chris LaMay-West believes in the power of rock music, Beat poetry, and the sanctity of Star Trek. He has appeared in Kitchen Sink and Morbid Curiosity, in various online venues including the Rumpus and Opium, and in the Mortified reading series. A California native, Chris is currently expatriated to Vermont, where he writes, works for a college, recently served as the poetry editor for Mud Season Review, and lives with his lovely bride, two cats, a dog, and several chickens. His literary exploits can be followed at: Chris LaMay-West