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Poetry Brothel puts the bawd in bard

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A party where you pay to have verse read to you in a bordello-style setting is packing in the punters. Are poetry and sex work really comparable?

I am in the back room of the Backroom cocktail bar in New York, reclining on a fur-covered day bed. Next to me is a woman. She wears a leather corset and harem pants, like a gypsy girl from a fairytale. She is barefoot. In the dim candlelight, she asks what Im in the mood for something sexy? Something dark? I tell her what will please me, and she reads me a poem.

She calls herself a poetry whore, and I have paid for her company. For the next 10 minutes or so, she will read me her verses, converse with me, entertain me. Between sheer curtains I can see several other transactions unfolding around us, hear stanzas and lines being murmured in close quarters. Now and then, the madam passes unobtrusively through, keeping an eye on her rent boys and girls.

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