Trip me, trip this
glowering bliss winding its way
through writhing statues posed
perilously pertinent
yet damningly drawn for pleasure
in someone else’s night mare
riding to the beat, heat
and rivulets bleed through
alabaster flesh.
Look at the young
god among men thrashing,
all looking to see honey
in his hair,
satin on his skin,
tremors in his step,
not from the din, but gin
coursing through veins
turning even ivory green not
from envy
but gangrene.
Spin. Gyrate. Toss
your hips ahead of your knees
to match a rhythm with
a grind is such a terrible thing
to waste away this night
among virulent bodies
virile with venom from
high speaking dealers
singly bent on keeping trade
dancing under black lights
like dinner under heat lamps
avoiding the sun and its
ultraviolet.
Ultraviolence.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones