There’s vomit in the corner and writing on the wall,
Saying ‘It cost me forty quid but this stuff has done fuck all’.
Transparent bags with smiley faces;
Next cubicle’s shoe laces;
Stickers reading ‘This isn’t Democracy’ and ‘Dubstep is Dead’.
A haunting reminder of your distance from a bed.
Dare not flush. Wipe the mirror clean;
This must be what the strange looks mean.
Glistening forehead, eclipsed eyes -
Just two more hours until sun rise.
Grip the sink and try to think,
I can’t believe how fast I can blink!
Three by the urinal, two making use,
One over-compensating and making an excuse.
The door opens itself, angry eyes enter,
A face saying ‘I assume the clit is in the centre’.
Occupying twice their space, tensing the muscles in their face -
I can’t feel a thing, except vibrations on my skin.
Each step feels in time
With the beat that’s in my mind.
Every face could be a friend that I can’t find;
Every face could be a friend.
This song never seems to end.
I dance, well, my knees bend.
Eye contact with the overlord:
He validates my thoughts.
We are all excelling in the teachings he taught.
He conducts and orders the mob in motion:
A crowd, in silence, defining commotion.
Never alone, but always. No one can understand.
Eye lashes that fan the smoke.
Staring, trying not to provoke.
A backwards approach - dry my face -
Pretending this was always my space.
Arms in her aura. Move in for a taste.
I can’t get an erection but I’d like to hold your hand.
Tipped scale. Feet fail. Hot skin. Closing in.
Lights flash. In time. With the beat. In my mind.
Limbs swing. Body’s fly. All contained. In my eyes.
Pulled up. Double drop. Party’s over. If I stop.
Blowing smoke. Breathing dust.
Because the air is not enough.
A race for a familiar face,
All known comforts in one embrace.
A wet back - like drying mache’,
When we were young we could always play.
Every second is a good time to kiss;
I know I’m drunk but I really mean this.
Upstairs to take in different air,
Locate a stranger with a cigarette ‘to spare’.
Sucking the same stick.
I don’t mean to be a prick.
‘What are you on, mate?’
Up until now, things were going great.
All of my blood is in my head
Yet it comes out in endless sweat.
Systematically forgetting and fearing
Every person I’ve ever met.
My clothes castrate.
No one can relate.