Hot Plants

Here we are, my Bright-Light - The Slow Discotheque. Connect your contacts to the mob-mind, dig the soft-focus that feels like an old future. Leave your shoes and stockings by the door, my Bright-Light - the spongy fungi carpet will leave your feet cleaner than when we came in. Try the honeysuckle, my Bright-Light - it comes in three flavors, hard to describe without glyphs. The dialects of the discotheques drift from ecosystem to enchanted ecosystem. Drink deep - or do not - the tab is infinite as long as we’re alive. Our payment is our body heat. The plants eat infrared here. Nothing leaves here hungry. Everything gets its fill. Take off that vestige of a bustle, my Bright-Light, We’re about to dance, and the nettles need something to prick. The music is very slow here, my Bright-Light - only the plants dance to it raw. We get it filtered, but if you tune in to the right trail, and breathe deep, you catch something like phrases - phrases of thanks. They bask in us, here in our near-dark of The Slow Discotheque - their adapted-dawn of The Slow Discotheque. Let us...trade, my Bright-Light, exchange energy for music, waste heat for wonder, sweat for sweet nectar. Let us...dance, my Bright-Light, in microscopic movements, mambas whose grooves only slime mold can nod to. And at the break, my Bright-Light, spoon with me, my Bright-Light, on the fungal floor of this Slow Discotheque, Let us rest awhile, let the hyphae taste us, imprint our receipt - their thanks - upon us in spore patterns blazing in the ultraviolet. Let us go now, my Bright-Light, covered in information, craving the next disco (what lovely lie, never leaving hungry) Let us kiss, go home, do the waggle-dance to remember where we were. Let us go, my Bright-Light, and spread the spores. Let us go, and boogie slowly to the hits of the hot plants.