Meat Market

For sale--sold
by the glitter of gold,
by fever bright eyes
and the wet sheen of sweat,
gyrating hints of possibilities,
lewd glints of empty nothings--
just wasting time with a taste
of what could be, what should be,
but isn't.
Is that beating drum your heart,
are you stomping out
the rhythm of life?
Are you giving in to the animal within?
Sacrificing humanity like a sacred lamb
for the sake of primal fires,
hedonistic desires for the texture of
flesh against your
lips, in your teeth, such
shapely hips, suggesting
what goes on between her thighs.
Are we so blinded
by the dim lights and tidal waves of sound
that we don't care about the soul
beneath that succulent enclosure of
supple skin, so willing to give in
to urgent demands, older than
rational thought
and the ability to rise above ourselves
and the moment?

[yes.]