The Paradise Club

Wake up rooms turn into make up rooms.

Painted on fashions serve to make us croon.

Flat frontals by day, she’ll have some fake cups soon.

I stop by Jacob’s just to make her swoon.

The Dj spins cuts that will make us boom.

Spirits whisper in our ears just to make us loom…

in that very place where my focus zooms…

in on empty bottles playing Moet tunes.

This is the spot where my outlet boons.

Perfect gents morph into the foulest goons.

We animals party, then howl at moons.

Then wake up in a strange house at noon.

Faces wet from sweat and your focus pruned

Safe self respect? But your clothing’s strewn

All over the scene like an old cocoon

Looking like the creature from the blue lagoon.

Head splitting, spinning out and mistuned…

Every octave distorted like broken down bassoons…

is the way your argument goes when inner voice oppugns.

But its silence last night made you two attuned.

From attune to atone, let’s just assume…

That’s what you do, pre-consumed beverages fill the spittoon.

Then curl up your lips, so they can be a perfect lune.

And put Paradise on hold again…

as the week of work resumes.

© 2008-2009 Malik Peterson. All Rights Reserved.