Montreal Strip Club

Montreal Strip Club


kittens from ever place except Canada,

minors in slender boots,

tip toeing across the stages,

feeling their familiar accents like milk after cookies,

it was just another neighborhood girl relocated to a country that tipped less,


her ass moved like cursive perfection,

while she whipped around the pole,

I was reminded of the 6th grade science experiment,

the one where we’d swung a bucket filled with water in order to prove,

the theory of Centrifuge,

her twisting felt like hammers hurled against glass spirits,

explosions of action verbs clawed their way into hungry adjectives,

beneath the heels of this hovering queen,

I believed I was uniquely special,

 when glanced down upon,

thanks to the wonderful acting classes,

 being paid off at my expense,

there’s something spiritual about hard nipples and cold beer,

something delicious about neon lights bouncing off tight skin,

small talk is easier to adjust too when your lap is filled with ass,

so the Sears bill might be late this month,

rent maybe a few days late,

the dog might get generic food for a week,

few consequences sacrificed for the opportunity to bite into an angels wings


By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell /