Listen to our common pulse
music filling the air
an electric canary singing our blues.
Dance until everything
is the same look and same color,
touch and smell and taste.
The night smells of sweet blue candle light,
tastes like a sudden loss of cabin pressure
feels like sweet buttercream
and a new dose of religion.
The night tastes like
a lover of worldly flesh.
The night is a thousand whispered lines
crawling all over our bodies.
One more chance
until the lights after last call--
until the bar-stool delusions of grandeur
turn to pumpkins and mice
with the last drops of their beer.
Like the last time,
like the time before that...
Every morning after the ball
we blame the drinks
We blame anything but we.
using up the rest of this
after midnight black magic.
the electric canary singing our song,
or day old sangria drunk from a glass shoe.