ManicWorld Magazine

it’s the toughest gig, a terrible, terrible job,
this set untested
(some truths get you dragged from the
stage) in the name of propriety—
trust me, i know  

for tonight only, my little comedian, take refuge 
from the storm
stand with me at the microphone
while we tell all; censors
waiting below,

Ladies and Gentlemen outside our hotel 
window, our stars 
left (for tonight only) beyond
the open curtains of the 
Upper West Side

our run, it was never meant to be
long but memorable, 
for our eyes only the show-
corset (glamourous) eyelets
of a Sweetheart

tonight is for dressed up vices, disguised
in scotch and smoke
—it’s the pretty ones that kill you— 
(first and last morning when)
the show must go on