Cabaret

The bluish smoke of cigarettes, moistened by vapes,
yellows the cloistered air; lingers above the pink
& orange cocktails & the punters’ choking laughs.
A queen in drag croons on the stage for seated otters
& bears. Sits on a stool, legs crossed, and purrs a joke
about the AfD. It’s sad.

                                           “We are the carnival
attractions of this day and age. The circus acts
(she growls) owned by our circus masters, whose voice
upon the gramophone we wait upon.” (She yaps).
Laughter. (A pass-ag look askance). “Arbeit macht frei.”
A ripple of applause from darkened audience.
“That’s s’posed to put y’all into an awkward silence,”
she (grimacing) retorts. Laughter again. Coarser
and louder this time. Awkward indeed. What of it!
She plunges now into full-blown confession mode:
“Just call me Lady Lazarus not Sally!” She jokes.
Blank like a robot now. “The dead weight of the jewels
of our submission, hang choking (she lifts an ankle
thickish and braceleted onto the chair) joyous
and harmful as the cutesy corpses of waddling
albatrosses caught by lost sailor-boys who’re
all at sea.” A silence settles in the smoke-filled room.
(She swaggers Mae West-style and manspreads awkwardly)
“The scapegoat’s sorry scapegoat. Weakest of the herd.
And on the salty air a stench of rotted carp
and weed wafts over old Sargasso on a cool
sea-breeze. A shanty of death rings out across
an empty ocean full of teeming life. – You asked
for poetry, you got it!” (She cries in mock triumph).
“Ingrates!” (Another off-stage grimace). She swings her
hoopla-skirted hips into the slipstream now. “Tossed
like that Jonah fella, into the deep blue sea.
Gobbled down by a whale. (She gasps) Or gobbled up.
I wish (quiet aside). Laughs… –Boom!.. Boom!.. A sudden
lights-out triggers a little panic. “Got you there!”
A bleak white spotlight now fondles her face. She sings.
“The past’s a labyrinthine road of persecution
and woe, with no way out. No hunky Theseus
(a smile breaks out through grim-faced look) (titters again)
to sock it to the Minotaur. I wish. No girl
to spin a tale and help a chap escape
substance abuse and constant self-flagellation
until the age they’re old enough to run away,
without cops even bothering to look for them.
Walking the alleys in a tightened skirt, chest out,
and proud. And God created woman in silico,
(laughs all around, the audience now nicely warmed up)
leading inexorably to this lucky point in space
and time under this cabaret spotlight singing
‘Unter den Linden’ one more fucking time (feigns tears);
inviting dear old Mack the Knife to put in
an appearance and stick one in…” (pause, twisted grin)
(titters of mirth await)–“Again!” (Guffaws)

“Lili’s no longer in the lamplight!” a heckling
drunk is keen to sing along in a lamenting
lampoon. “A last duet at last,” she shoots back at him.
“Beautiful. Maybe a duel. They say the first cut
doesn’t hurt at all.” That’s it. She smooches a kiss
back over the shoulder she has thrown a boa
over. Exits—exists—amidst a rustle of pink.
Curtain. Job done. High fives from stage-hands languish
unrequited. She stomps off in a huge huff
to confused but rapturous applause. Fuck it.
She thinks. Tomorrow they think belongs to them.
But really—and I mean really—it belongs to me.
*
The Sphinx in pink, relaxed now after the escape,
lies back, growls & guffaws, knocks back the beer, claps, jeers,
and weeps for enjoyment & appreciation
of the show. Tec, slumped over a beer or two, three tables
away, raises a sullen hand to call
a skimpily-clad waitress over to order
one more frothing mug of ale. Not sure if she’s she
or a he. “If you could see you through my eyes.”
He fluffs the chat-up line. Fuck it. He thinks.
Too pissed to care.