Slipping on wettened glass in a wavy light
I was caught. Hands out
And lifted to a local foosball table.
One eye landing on a fading face.
In this wasteland I appear by a sinking creek of vodka
And we are near a spotty forest of dancers
Dancing to something trendy and electronic.
Then the song with words is cut off.
As I exit all recognition I feel
My fist shoot up like a whitened bulb
Wanting to burst the earth
Of your cheek. I start to think
The steps are axed to bits.
I look around for a clearing,
But the voices that are there
Are like inescapable shades of moods
I want to get a hold of myself
To stop the music. To stop you.