Tuesday, May 18, 2010

The Boneyard

Lonely tables and chairs suction
clusters of youth around them
as night comes, pulling them in
with brown bottles, tall glasses,
giant screens display frantic
human activity, blinking,
flashing numbers, talking
mouths with no words,
bodies multiply like mutant cells,
disco music forces itself into
your ears and causes the bodies to bob
like blond-haired engine pistons.
Stalker-looking men tell you
your daughter is beautiful
and you want to take her home
but you can't because she's all
grown up. As the night goes on
you feel older and older,
but the drummer looks at you
for awhile, he points and smiles at you
because you still love to dance,
and you know you're not dead yet.

1 comment:

John Ettorre said...

Ahhhh. Words and images good enough to eat.