October 2026 (From Substack)
What, exactly, is a Poetry Brothel?
When I was first abducted into the world of scandalous stanzas and scantily-clad storytellers, I was still working as an assistant property manager in the most boring cubicle you could imagine. I’d always been a freak, but I was in danger of losing my spark. Then I found the Poetry Brothel. This October marks seven years of assonance and affiliation, and in honor of our next show coming up (Oct 30th!) here’s a special-edition list essay about what I learned while being a Poetry Whore.
For those who don’t know, the Poetry Brothel is “an immersive literary cabaret that fuses live poetry readings with vaudeville, burlesque, music, theater, magic, and mysticism.” Poetry Whores float around offering private readings to johns, and the whole thing is wild and cheeky.
The first character I ever played was called Catarina Crowe. Then, I became Kalokairi. Now onstage, I’m just Kro—though way more of a bird.
What I learned as a Poetry Whore
The art of crafting an alter ego, a dramatis persona. In 2019, during my first Poetry Brothel cast meeting, I was sitting on the teak floors of a $10,000/month penthouse decorated with hundreds of pairs of rare sneakers and handbags. My credit score shivered in its boots, even as we were sitting in the Cast Circle, making up our personas. My colleagues became Butch Puddin’, Buddy Chops, and Pearl Devour. For my first Poetry Whore persona, I kept it simple: I became Catarina Crowe, leaning into the bird thing I’ve already got going on. I bought some feathery accessories from a Mardis Gras surplus website and put the “plume” in nom de plume.
How to put together a wicked outfit. Once I had my new persona, I had to dress her. It’s hard to feel your own scandalous assonance when you’re dressed like a schlub, so I learned to prowl down dingy yellow Goodwill aisles to find One Hell of A Dress. I experimented, combining feathers with a swishy hemline and a spooky face of makeup, trying to capture them All Hallows shivers. For my first Brothel, I bought no fewer than three vintage dresses to figure out what my character, Catarina Crowe would wear. Then I ended up wearing none of them and going with something that was already in my closet. Classic.
Show ass for the arts. Over the years, sometimes my hemlines have creeped higher, my shame has exited the building, and I sometimes wear the same black leather bondage harness with the brass studs to this poetry reading as I do to the sex dungeon. Why are we here? To pull poetry out of the ivory tower and into a seedy underbelly, where the words are whispered and the floors are often sticky. So if you’re wearing your six-inch red pleasers to the function just know, you’re gonna look great and you may need to wash them afterwards. People don’t hate poetry; they hate STUFFY poetry. We’re here to evangelize that poetry could be a sensual, textural experience.
What it’s like to actually DO improv. I’d like to give a special shout out to Chip the Consent Clown for being one of my early, and most enthusiastic, yes-and-ers on the brothel floor. When the lights go down and the johns start milling around the red-velvet venue all awkward and stiff, we Poetry Whores get to work. I would do a bit of twitchy flirting, trying to seduce people by telling them I’d (as Catarina Crowe) been abducted by goblins that had taught me to do wild things with my tongue. And then Chip the Clown would come over and give it a heenka-heenka clown-horn squeeze, and I’d find myself in three minutes of ridiculous banter. The weird in me honors and recognizes the weirdness in you, namaste.
The power of committing to the bit. I would offer johns a sample poem to whet their whistle, written in the language of the goblins who abducted me. The piece was called An ode to the Mother of Tree Stumps. They would lean in real close in the dusky bar, and I would whisper into their ear…”narblin garblin neebelfar, harblin darlin feebledar,” and then nod knowingly. Usually this would get me a couple bucks, though there were some people who were reliably confused (usually white men over 40). And all of the other Poetry Whores were doing the same. This is the power of immersive theater—we are creating a bubble outside of space and time where weird shit happens, where you can suspend your disbelief. And maybe suspend yourself to, if that’s your kink and we’ve got rope available.
Making money from poetry is possible. Remember, this was 2019, before I was an on-demand typewriter poet; I wouldn’t start clacking on the keys for another three years. This bizarre burlesque experiment in immersive poetry was the first time anyone put cash money in my hand after I read them a poem. After that, I was drunk. The Poetry Brothel is the reason that I was able to summon my chutzpah and say YEAH, I’ll typewrite you a poem, that’ll be $20, dude. Before the Brothel I was a timid little assistant property manager too nervous and quivery to read at an open mic in a shitty bar. Look at me now, Ma, no hands!
Poetry is participatory. People want desperately to be a part of something larger than themselves, and also, it’s VERY easy to get power drunk in that bright white spotlight. When you’re the only lit spot in a dark room, standing on a stage, and the face of every rube in the place is on you? I tell them “raise your hands!” and they raise their hands. I tell them, “Repeat after me: I’m giving Kro all my money tonight.” And then they parrot it back to me like good little pets. I want to pat each and every one of them on the head and say, Good Dog. I feel like a poetic puppeteer with my fingers on their strings. This has even translated to my work outside the Brothel—I write work that challenges the reader, and forces you to play with the work.
Maybe I’ll see you there ;)
And if all that sounds good to you? Well, I’ve got good news. Our next show is October 30th, and you can get 25% off by using discount code KRO. I’ll be doing one of my wet and wild stage sets, and also typewriting poems on the spot. The theme of this show is MONSTERS, and I’m currently working on some poems detailing my love of trashy werewolf novels, BDSM, and my terrible ex-boyfriend. I hope to see you there! (To everyone except my terrible Ex-Boyfriend)
