room dark small dark sparkly lights overtly happy
(I am used to the goth club?)
young ones they
can't all be old enough to be here but
they are
and the we
the me I am and the me in my head I talk to
the we
are self conscious
moving awkwardly to the music
feeling like some old imposter like everyone's
staring
but I know they're not
they weren't
I could have been invisible
but I don't dance like that anymore
music sweaty sultry rhythmic speaking of a time
place space a where
that isn't here but we
all of us on the dance floor
could create it if we wanted to.
Is this what the clubs in Havana are like?
I would love to find out.
Beautiful women singing to us, dancing at their microphones
casting thinly veiled glances our way
a performer's lonliness cannot be placated by a complete stranger's adoration
one is covered, the other wearing a halter top
her chest between her breats glistening with sweat
hued blueish by the lights. It is the kind of thing that catches the light
exemplifying the simple beauty of hard work
yet being a thing of lust for so many
How did simple hard work come to be objectified?
The night is dark and there's a place to go for a
slice of pizza that's surprisingly good
it reminds me of Vietnam - but just a
small slice stuck into a corner of Edmonton where my
highschool classmates were afraid to go after dark
It is not that it is a bad part of town, but there are sometimes fights,
the police are often called
drugs are fairly commonplace.
The inside of the pizza shop had off-white walls covered in sharpie marker
graffiti
no furniture, a ledge by the window and a step to sit upon. Nothing fancy.
In the back the big pizza ovens are visible
along with large sacks of flour
when can I say that I'm tired and I
want to go home?
I am too old for this shit. I don't go to bars to close them with the
partiers. At 3 am I should be in bed, not out on the
street
People in cars heckle us the
whole way home and I'm
putting on a bit of a show for them
politely
it is still fun it hasn't
denigrated
into fuck you
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