Classy

The bar had no restroom signs

Anywhere to be seen

There were just a couple of unmarked doors

Down a dirty corridor

One had two doorknockers on it

At chest height

The other had two baseballs

Embedded just below the waist.

It actually took me a couple of minutes to work it out.

The doorknockers were slightly uneven

Suggestive of the real woman perhaps?

As opposed to the ludicrous

Fabricated porn star ideal

But lets acknowledge

That the real woman

Includes the grotesque

Just as much as the one

Born of monstrous fantasy

And the real man

May indeed have baseball balls

That’s not to say,

Huge and hard and powerful,

But rather:

Fetishized homoerotic objects

Of childish hierarchy-setting

Game play

That should be hit with bits of wood.

Two pints later I paid another visit

And found a girl

Pondering the riddle of the doors

I chose the balls

And as the door closed behind me

I heard her laughing

And calling to her friends

After I’d finished

I went outside and found the girl

And two others, still laughing

Taking pictures of the doors

With their super smart phones

Bouncing the balls and knockers

Off Satellites in space and into

The lives of other friends

Boyfriends

And beyond

Before E-harmony there was Pee-harmony

I went back to my seat

Wondering how many couples had met

Trying to find the restrooms

Tipsy and unable

To decipher the door symbols

And if any of them were still together

Married

With kids

Living happily in the suburbs

Their young daughters growing up

Polishing their knockers

Against the carnival buffers

Of our culture

Their young boys growing up

Playing with their balls

Struggling to comprehend

(in strong silence)

What it’s supposed to mean

To be a man.

I'm sure future generations

Will look back on us with pity

And reclassify our civilization

As only semi-intelligent

And not because of knockers

And balls on a door

But because we are dissatisfied

And are always wanting more

Stretched out too tight

Like a violin string

Snapping in the middle

Of the infinite concerto

Unable to enjoy

The chorus

Or the silence

The choir of man

Barking

Whimpering

Half mad and full mad

Growing hair

Shaving hair

Master of electricity

Slave to any easy delusion

Stuck between animal and immortal

Our brains squirming like Proteus

The minor Grecian Sea God

Who possessed the power of prophecy

But always assumed different shapes

To avoid answering questions

Proteus, our savior

Take the signs off

All the doors

Let us step back in confusion

For a moment

Into animal simplicity

And lose ourselves in the truth

Of Species-hood

Free from the mean narcotic

Of individuality.

Later

I would drink more

Insult people in my mind

Lose my keys

Then laugh with friends

Spill red wine on my shoes

And drool in my sleep

Classy.