Dance Floor Philosophy

Look at the poet on the dance-floor

Appreciating the beat, awed by the moves

Hypnotized by the way the light hits the gin soaked boy

Look at him – beer fizzing out in his warm hands

Aware of alienation

Of discovery

Of possible assimilation.

Everyone’s here to lose it

The fool is here to collect it.

The strobe diffuses, in him it infuses.

The liquor helps, but is not necessary

As he gingerly moves an inch

So you can dance the dance of liberation.

Sweaty bodies grinding against strangers in the dark,

And the idiot is still thinking in metaphors.

It is hard for the artist to fall in love with details

He is committed to the big picture.

Ode to the Last Cigarette at 4 am

The burning stick
Like a flame of hope
Sticks out like a bad choice in an organised world.

The one true friend that sticks with you
Once the laughter and loud voices around you
Disappear in the vapour of night.
The last light after the joy can no longer be reflected
In the amber glasses

Now lying tall and empty
Judging you from the kitchen counter.

The music is transient.
Like you wish your sorrows were.

The ashes gather...
Like the wishful tears at your fantastic funereal.

Tomorrow is another day,
There will be light,

More than what your torch of loneliness shows.
Beyond those labyrinthine passages
You cross every night behind closed eyes.

The unending turns and circles
Between forgotten junk and broken furnitures.

The end is near,
Look up and hold on.

There is more light at the end of the tunnel,
Either in this life or the next.