Old Amsterdam

by Aidan Andrew Dun

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In Amsterdam
where the houses
lean suggestively
like women swaying
serpentine hips
red-lipped
lurid as neon
inn-signs flashing
hooking and fishing
men from oceans
of boredom;
with net-stockings
trawling for the phallus
where it swims in shoals.

In old Amsterdam
where the cunning sea
licks at the dry land
lasciviously, stretching
arms, canals longingly
around backwaters:
zones of the Netherland
seaport hookers
who land their catches
in mundane basements
curtained
with dirty nylon
musky pink.

In old Amsterdam
where medieval churches
embrace tumbledown
whorehouses as if
to comfort them
for tedious joys
pleasure dealt out at
so-much-per-hour:
in Amsterdam
where I went
walking with my lover
we wished for the world
that all might change;
hoped for ourselves
that all
might stay
the same.


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‘I don’t sell, you don’t buy.’






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