Posted in memoir, social commentary

Talking to Someone About the Last Lap Dance

blue desert sky


I am so sad about Robin Williams.

All the talking heads are yak, yak, yakin’ like hens in a henhouse
and I think of the song
“everyone’s talkin’ at me,
I can’t hear a word they’re saying.”

We know it hurts.
Our filled wet eyes pouring over
like waterfalls in paradise
down and down
into nothingness.

No relief
because there is no more
to express.


Utterances…the insanity
still cluck, cluck, clucking
24-7 on flashy stations-ladies in the
form fitting
little black dresses
perfect legs, sleek and tan.
The men with smoothed heads
bulging arms, t-shirts with honed mounded pectorals shined to perfection
not showing a wrinkle in their shirts,
never a blemish
or a sigh.

Desperate without love because the dopamine doesn’t flow right
and they called you fat
as a child
and who knows what other dark secret never made it
into the healing light of transmutation.

On to the next story
without a break or a pause,
it’s not a cure for cancer
not a happy time,
our national
obsession with appearance…
bigger steroid abs, torsos of steel, flawless skin tone, baby bumps, tight tummies, hot mamas, baby daddies, sugar baby boy-girl-girl-boy
a label to be a brand
a new appendage to hold in your arms like a trophy
until the next break up,
or sensational hook-up
on public display,
toned and tightened
butts and thighs,
muscles and cheeks
it goes on for weeks,
never stopping
never ending
freaky freaks
cashing in on the beat
taking score
comparing types,
always, always focusing on the body.

The GREED monster


Bikini bodies on the beach stalking sweat
and glances for
empty chances,
but something sparkles in the sand
just below your awareness
you are not enough.

Fingers, arms, legs, genitalia
selfies and phones,
everyone talks the same
using that creaky dry throat thing,
that style that sounds like
they need a drink of water
to soften the palate of conformity.
Networks of shame

empty  of innocence continue with reeling in

and going viral.

It’s the definition of obscenity: narcissism bought and sold
in any venue. The body and the girl, barely legal
breaking bad, some stupid drug glorified on television-even if it makes people dump their kids
into alleyways at night
and jam guns into baggy pants in a dizzying rage
and the people watch programs
about orange and black, capitalizing on the woes of jail,
the lock and key of insanity,
the beer and the babe, the car and the broad,
the truck and the dude,
sound bytes selling sex
sizzling sting of decay
with a backdrop down into weapons sales

where refugees wail on a mountaintop

fighting to survive

beguiled tongue
of the devil who is

devoid of integrity.

Endless consumption
of the image-mongers
and the body sellers,

the makers of ratings

by baiting

false admiration
contrite superiority
used to sell cars, bodies, and products,
selling likes and attention

me first-me, me, me
all the way
to hell
for temporary pleasure.

It won’t last.

Thank God it’s only a bad dream.

lights copy

Copyright © 2014 by Susan E Rowland


I made it this far and plan to keep going. I believe nature heals the soul. I love to journal, to write, do art, and music. I'm not afraid to tackle tough subjects. Solar-powered & drive hybrid. Trying to do my part. Earned my BA at 53. And, I believe, it's never too late to have a happy childhood.

3 thoughts on “Talking to Someone About the Last Lap Dance

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.