My hips sway themselves mental
to hysteric light show alcoholism,
neon flashing, fenced-in abominations,
ID card question mark curiosities,
treble clef screaming punctualities,
I don’t care what I’m wearing,
or if mascara drips down my face
with sweat and whiskey,
I don’t care who’s dancing with me,
photographer flashbulb crushes,
and dyslexic t-shirt corrupters,
and perfectly trimmed beards,
dark as the middle east,
framing ancient-youth smiles,
I don’t care if I’m dancing alone,
I don’t care about anything but the beat
snaking its way through my body,
my hair flying frantic,
my hands on my own body,
you can’t touch me,
but I’ll touch myself,
the querulous whine of the track,
stinging my booze-soaked veins
which fight to free themselves from my skin,
a perilous, demanding waltz,
my god trips his way through ashes;
to mourn is to
to dance until

20 thoughts on “late

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