Just a little something I wanted to throw up before I head off. Written for an ex-lover.
Please Note: This is very much a deviation from my usual style. The excessive wordplay is intentional and my usual approach, for those of you who have not read any of my previous work.
Constructive criticism specifically on whether this style of writing works (or not) is appreciated.
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~ DANCE ~
People say that the shy and scared hide in shadows and secluded corners, that they dwell in their own cocoons, safely locked away from our everyday humdrum. They might be right. Most of the time.
But the shy and the scared are lured forward sometimes, to the clattering beat of a new twelve incher, to the clattering beat of high heels, and to the clattering, shattering strobe of the slitter on a punch drunk crowd's glitter, sweat, smiles, strips, body shots and acid trips. At midnight, in anything from the fancy uptown establishments to the seedy underground improv clubs, it's the same old story, night after night. The pulsating jungle of basements, back beats and bass drums thumping new truths into the scattered souls of the everyday gloom.
This is where they go to forget, to be all that they wish they were. This is where they let alcohol and pheromones mix and overdose on each other, where new chapters in comedies and tragedies are initiated. Night after night, drink after drink. Beat after beat after beat... It's here, in the night, that the hidden comes forth.
But still remains just as hidden.
She danced. There was no other word for it. No poetic orchestration of syllables and sex could intensify that sight. Black hair like a waterfall swayed back and forth across her bare back and the opaque blue halter top scattered with deep blue spangles clung on for dear life against the rhythm of her twisting torso, threatening to slip loose at any second. The short, pleated black skirt slapped her upper thighs like a curtain in erratic draft. Her feet moved to their own melody, and her lips, her blood red lipstick, mimicked a monologue that nobody could hear.
She danced, in every sense of the word, a combination of ancient traditions and futuristic ideals, clashed into one body in motion, always finding a new form for her balance between madness and structure. She danced alone, in a sea of other writhing forms, none that could touch her, none that could ever compare with this girl in the black skirt. She was not there, not in their world of debauchery and skin parade, although she played the part, wore that mask to blend in and stand out all at once.
This was her moment, her chance to escape, to enter the cocoon and live her own agoraphobic utopia for a few, vibrant minutes. This was where she hid from things. Things that did not match her pace, things that tilted her universe the wrong way on a daily basis. Things that made her feel that creeping sense of not belonging. This was her home, her hideout. Where everyone could see her.
She danced, and the world, the command of her destiny, somehow still belonged to her.