Scant neon letters hang above
The iron circles with no rust,
Next too the plush doors
With tall, vertical handles
Leading towards a black descent
Into a glass floor above
Dying earth illuminated with
Iridescent strips of cosmetic light.
Everything is black and white,
Except for the large panel behind
Where the two men with needles
And wax discs conjure sounds–
Strange yet familiar–
Upon which a woman unlike any
In the flashing mists and heat
Something changes as the night
Transmutes insecurity and caution
Into abandon and order that reflects
All the rage of that modern scene
Gleaned from picture shows
And made into a five act play
Where no witches give warnings
And everyone falls like Ceaser.
Bedlam breaks and everything becomes
Day inside while the world at large
Remains shrouded in stars and
In sight of the shy peeks form the moon,
Herded outside but some want back in,
Laying siege to castle gates unaware
That they are already drowning in the moat.
Outside a man cries half like
A bull on the charge and half like
A goat being butchered in ceremony,
Stumbling through the cool air
Of a relation with his atmosphere
That he cannot bear to understand
Not knowing that there really is not
Anything for him to comprehend.
Lights shine in concentrated beams,
Engines roar and voices die,
Slowly falling to their deaths,
Jumping base, not falling upward,
Through the blinded alleys
Littered with craters from their impact,
Surrounded by everyone,
Kept imprisoned by swaths of emptiness.
Author’s Note: I’m not a big fan of night clubs in Mongolia, at least, not in certain cities; I guess I’m not much of a club person to begin with. Each one has its own character, but they are all surprisingly similar in unassuming ways. It’s difficult to describe.