Open them wide that she may enter in,
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endlesse matrimony make,
And let the roring Organs loudly play
--Edmund Spenser from “Epithalamion”
There is a certain feeling,
A visceral vibe,
You know it’s going to be a good night.
The DJ is spinning,
Spilling treasures ebullient onto the floor.
Crossing over Jordan,
No worries or dangers or cares
On that bright shore.
No poisonous pairs
Looking to wheel home a third.
The men are all clumped dark and far
Away, skulking at the bar.
The night, the dance, belongs to the girls.
Eyes kohled, hair hennaed.
Fantastic-lashed pastel petals glitter.
Azerbaijani princesses girded
With black leather bras
And leopard poly skins.
Goth nurses twisted hair
Ghostly openly stare
Black and periwinkle wide.
High strapped booted tight
Atop heels of consequential height,
All are lost in essential delight.
Rose attar, neroli, clove,
The garden roars
Cinnamon, jasmine, sandalwood.
And all, we all are such touch whores,
Endorphin freaks demanding more
Wordless promises petting, praying:
You won’t hurt me, I know
You won’t hurt me.
Only comfort to cut the pain
Connect reassure another smother
Shyly asking with hands brushing
A shoulder smooth
A breast caress sweet
In Drum & Bass
House trance bump ass
Scratch vinyl slick.
But our romance ends
When the needle comes up.
The smoky remains,
A tremolo echo
That lives only here
At the club.