Victory Burlesque
April 1 2009


At the old Victory Burlesque
pale men slumped
in plush velour chairs,
stained and scuffed.
A few bums
who had begged their 2 bucks
slept,
heads lolling.
The stag party, drunk,
the fraternity punks,
hooted and hollered
cat-called and swallowed
cheap rye, or rum,
revelling in their manliness.

They watched the stage
avoiding each other,
peering through tobacco-smudged darkness.
At girls who were pleasantly plump
just off the farm,
in the city to be discovered.
They would bump-and-grind
waggle fat behinds
and spin gaudy tassels,
dangling temptation
only to snatch it back.
Dancing away mechanically
they clumped around on stage
as if it were milking time —
hair up
in garish paint
smacking wads of gum
into bright pink bubbles.

On Christmas eve
she wore a jaunty Santa cap,
waved plastic mistletoe,
hung candy canes
from her nipples —
and no one took offence.

They tore it down
a year ago,
for a parking lot, a Multiplex.
Some say there’s still the scent
of talcum powder and stale sweat,
of tobacco
and musk.

The few old men
who remember,
the Victory Burlesque.



Before it was demolished, the Victory Burlesque was a seedy Toronto landmark, a survivor from an earlier era of furtive sexuality and puritanical finger-wagging. It was also a rite of passage for teenage boys. I never had the “privilege” of attending, however. So this poem is an utter fabrication, a complete act of imagination. Which means that I’m waiting to hear back from someone who did: wondering whether or not I got it right. Although I will admit that for some of the juicy bits, I owe a debt of gratitude to a recent “Outfront” episode (a listener produced CBC radio show that has since been cancelled). So how about we just call it an homage, instead of shameless plagiarism?!!