Moulin Rouge (on a Friday)

Ménage; sensuous massage of senses
dined on fine bourdeaux sipped in a
seething ampitheatre’s ambience. 

We are here with closet crew of 800 at
Moulin Rouge on a Friday – wearing
a tie and a fifty-years-wide smile 

delighted eyes avidly bathing. No sense
of outrage, breasts do not titillate
– merely express vigor embraced in an 

exuberant artistry of song and dance.
Costumes brave and percussion
enhanced movement suspended

over a stage kaleidoscoping under
glazed lights, a raised tank with
coral snakes caressing a niad’s

breasts – she undressed in less
than your imagination. Bound in the
parade of passion’s narration made 

in the Can Can leg kicks rearing,
revealling glimpses, baring, teasing 
yet quaintly restrained – and we all 

rang with the same red blood
resonance as the years fell away.
© 24 September 2007, I. D. Carswell