Spoken word. Waterfall curls

Tilt my head back

and let my mind wander

about the thunder

you’ve created in my chest,

that at best, feels close to exploding

all over the dance floor.

In hundreds of little pieces and fragments

that get stepped on and twisted

and tangled in other people’s sandals and Stilettos.

The bass swells and wells

in pockets of emptiness and loneliness.

The little bits of me that long for friendliness

amongst the hot sticky mess.

Sweat and cigarettes.

Short skirts and legs.

I drink the dregs

and try to impress

the opposite sex.

I sway and flex,

cutting intense polygons looking like a moron.

Putting a smile on

for them, the men.

Every weekend.

Maybe it’s the ah-ah-ah-alcohol…

Or that I haven’t slept at all.

But I’m getting that familiar tingling sensation,

a kind of motivation

to get my game on.

Ignite the flame on the dance floor.

Move some more.

Allow the beat to penetrate my feet.

Make them move,

make them schmooze.

Helped by the booze.

I‘ve got candy in my heels

and a chest full of tunes.

I’m relieved it’s dark—

my unashamed mask

that guides me to the bar.

A more arduous task

than the time before last,

because I’m drunker now.

The nights fading fast.

I walk past the gaggling girls

who’ve been hating all night,

with their dagger looks

and fingers likes hooks

on the unsuspecting fish

who have themselves been sharking.

Parking yellowed fingers and bloodshot eyes

on the prize:

The guise of a girl with waterfall curls

and bohemian swirls that unfurl

in a slurred order of yet another “vodka lime soda”.

It’s over.

They love her—

that girl with the waterfall curls

that unfurl

as she purls

and gyrates on the pole so conveniently located in bars such as these.

Bending over to the front and touching her toes,

her sex face on,

lips encircled in an ‘O’.

She brings her arse up and down and gets oh. So. Low.

Appeasing and pleasing

the ogling beer-goggled muddle of men.

Contending.

Banging their clubs with a primitive passion.

Lads with their lash on.

Imagining the surmounting ending

of mounting the treasure

who will endeavour to remain at the pole—

swinging her hips,

her lips in an ‘O’.

Getting low

to the beat of the bass

and the drum.