By brian francis
The gathering commences
as the rattle of a key silences
the waiting crowd.
Doors fly open
Swallowing, one by one,
young, lean, decorated bodies.
The phone number was dead
Just a few hours ago.
No answer to the ringing.
Then the message came
A warehouse was announced
The party was on — rush, rush, rush
South of Euclid Street near the river
Behind the building painted red
Double wide green doors
the sign of Apollo marks the place
Lasers shoot across the expanse
Echoing from mirrors
hidden in darkness.
Ricocheting through the air
Silently screaming by
The jarring waves of techno
Assail and assault the mind
As bodies wreathe in delight
In a sexual and sensual dance
Images flow together
In the darkness
shattered by the strobes
Pulsing energy absorbs
Inhibitions and releases desire
The dance comes from within
First trickling out in slow movements
Then slowly swelling to a flood
And engulfing so completely
The bodies tortured and adorned
With metal piercings
Jerk and twist in spasmodic expression
The edges – the walls attract the lurkers
Trippers and hawks of every kind
Watching the darkness through the flashes.
The bodies touching creating ecstasy
ancient emotions taking control
Instincts as old as man
Eye candy dances on the walls
Laser portraits and designs
Projections through colored acetate
Song and rhythm fading into each other
Minutes and hours passing with the beat
Until the sunrise and reality
Copyright ©2020 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 