Maybe bring it up the hysterical. "It is I Arthur, King of the British." Nostalgic for neon lights in small time clubs, where people go to disappear, cutting up paychecks and sliding fragments into jukeboxes and slot machines. The coins spinning and hearts turning until aligned with the stars. Some magnetic pull to keep the icons in unison. Half a heart attack. Binging and purging on soap and sterilizing lotions. Gradient from blue to red. "Have a great tomorrow." The hair of the dog to improvise social warmth and feelings of union. Body party paint, speckling over ripped and tattered clothing, staining car seats and making crowds of naked girls feel artistic. Dancing until the paint dries, lights bumping to the music until the beat dies. Close your eyes, you don't want colors inside. Because they lace the walls with cocaine, if they ask if you want a line, please refrain, for your mother will thank you for abstaining. (Most pregnant women drink very little.) Dance floor conception, the conceptual moves evolving until bodies float up through the fog machines and rise like spirits on their miscellaneous and scattered highs. Dropping low, if you fall you will be trampled. Keep your feet up. Or your head will follow into such dark crevasses, sink holes in the desert oasis, palm trees lining up runways, everyone here thinks they are a model or a starlet with dreams of pornography. At a loss with how great the tone feels. your body vibes with mine but still outside of the musical rhythms. on another plane of existence still, closed off from the outside world entirely. Falling to pieces in the arms of all past lovers, but they melt away into mist. Disembodied spirits dancing above gravestones of other more famous dancers. The ones that culturally invent acceptable means of transportation in a dark, black-lit setting. You can't walk in there without swagger. All eyes on you but once yours come up they cast down to their feet. Counting stitches on shoes, the more glitter the better, that can be vacuumed out of car seats but the memories remain. Grabbing a balloon from the concert and escaping the crowd unscathed. Many threatened to pop with their keys or a deft lighter. But we succeeded and fell asleep with visions of live performance careening through our heads. Carving beads out of stones with disposable tools.
We carry the vision and describe things in full color and shape for ones without vision.
