Let's throw him onto the field
until the grooves in his spine
break, and the needle carves riverbeds
into his back, and memories of
flashing dancefloors flood into
the delta of a new decade,
fresh with promise but
doomed to the same failures.
The nineties will laugh at you, too,
you know.
Let's toss him off the upper deck,
because he is peacocking like crazy.
No one wears white to the clubs
anymore. No one wants to be that easy
a target. Ring the bellbottoms from
the highest tower in the mission,
because he has been cast from
the Top 40 and into the unforgiving sea.
We came not to mourn disco,
but to spit on its grave.
We are so damn cool
we wear black suits on a summer night
We will fill in the plot
under six feet of confetti,
packed tighter than sagging flesh
in satin jackets.
The only problem is that
this shoveling act is taking forever.
Wow.
How deep is your love?
Mistake mirrorballs for pinatas,
but don't be surprised
when scorpions fall out the cracks.
Author notes
Bring Me the Disco King, option 1
(this is where the <3 should be, I guess)
A contest entry
- Bring Me Your Wicked by XpushXmeXagainX.
875 points, ended October 6, 2008, 24 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
Ohmy.
I'm speechless.
This was amazing.
Thank you so much for entering. -
Goddamn it. I totally was going to mention scorpions in on of my own upcoming joints.
Quit swagger-jacking.
Oh, and a quote that applies to our talk the other night: "A hard worker is man who hustles while he waits."- Thomas Edison.
Ring the bellbottoms...you are a madman.
-C
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