This club pulsates with so much
bad cologne my nose might detach
itself from my face like a lizard
dropping its tail to survive. A
congregation of shiny-shirted men
circle a threesome of women in
dresses made from permanent
marker and dental floss. The men
are silken sharks with nothing
on their mind but the impeccably
gelled spikes of their 75 dollar
haircuts. The leader, his popped
collar signifying dominance,
has undone the fourth button
on his shirt, separating the silver
fucking dragons on each breast
pocket to reveal a tattoo of some
forgettable saying like Freedom
or Truth or No Regrets, which
ripples on his pectoral like a nervous
pond. There is not enough liquor
in the world to make this encounter
bearable, not enough smoke and
laser to mask the spectacle unfolding
in front of my eyes. So, I gingerly
pry them from their home, place
them gently into my drink and stuff
the sockets with ice to numb the
pain. Some nights DJs are blind.
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