Nightclubbing

They wait in the night-lit brightness. I watch them from an over-magnified telescope; youngsters and older some dripping a scent of latent maturity, a furtive effort to blend and not offend the judges who have sly thoughts in their searchlights eyes. The bling, the gewgaw glints, the small of fake gold, the shot passions of high skirts. They form ordained disorderly lines eager to bow before the bouncer, to pour themselves into the melee and scrum the jumping pump of ecstasy. Night life is wanting, is waiting, it needs to club together, to sweat the music, to throb with the sound of aortic rhythmic impulses, to dance upon a crushed floor breathlessly offering upwards their erotic prayers, on baited hooks of desire. The young must, they simply must, and we trust they will be tired one day, too tired, too busy, too distracted as we are to dance death away while drugs snack on their meat.