#nightlife
At 5am
the club becomes emotionally democratic.
Suddenly everyone is fragile:
lawyers,
drug dealers,
vegetarians,
men named Luca with chest tattoos and unresolved fathers.
A beautiful Black man kisses my forehead
near the bathrooms
like he has known me through several wars.
Techno is strange.
It sounds like anxiety industrialized,
yet somehow
people become softer inside it.
My friends are outside smoking.
One is crying beautifully in Croatian.
One is in love again.
One has disappeared with a German photographer
who looks like he owns expensive emotional problems.
I stand near the speakers
thinking about how exhausting it is
to always be “the strong one.”
People think charisma is energy.
It is not.
It is maintenance.
It is making eye contact
while your soul quietly lies down on cold tiles
for a minute.
Then a man touches the small of my back
gently,
confidently,
like someone parking a very expensive car.
And suddenly
I understand religion.
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 7:47 AM UTC
“No one knows what they’re doing,”
the bartender says
while confidently setting fire
to an orange peel
New York glows outside
like an expensive misunderstanding
Someone near the window
is pretending not to miss somebody
professionally
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 10:04 AM UTC
Pensive, watching the water
I see her skirt rise and fall
Chilly wind flapping at
Her skin
Her clothes
The crash of the waves
Rise & fall
Salivating mouth
Pulse rising
Sand
Skin
******
Faraway laughter
Pubfare scents & smells
Neon lights on hazy waters
Cigarette smoked to the filter
Embers fall
The taste of salt is in the air
Recreation of seaside youth antics
Are you too blind to remember
Memoirs in Her womb
Skeleton hands on Her spine
Seckret serpentine lashings
& the taste of the Abyss
Crocheting spiderwebs in my mind
I pine I pander
I lust I wail
Rebellion swells in all my veins
All of my crimson blood is draining
Straight into the mouth of Hell
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 3:10 AM UTC
red lights bleed fluorescent
of the get-up and go of green,
orange, reminds me of hazards
I slowed to a crippled statue,
and the cast is meant for healing.
no, its the breaks to stationary,
your heart race is beating
and you do nothing but freeze,
waiting for lights to appease.
Night-club beats that pleases.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 5:06 AM UTC
Resolved feathers landing
In her hush cocktail
Dressing our sights
Scenes we wouldn't spend
Trots unboxed
Only four out
And about
A picture we couldn't snap out of
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 11:29 AM UTC
Ok, (taking a breath) Christmas.
Finals are over, it’s the Noel Holiday and the very air-pressure feels different.
My lanky bf, Peter and I have a small, three-foot, plastic green tree which stands proudly, like a cliff-jumper, on a coffee-side-table. It’s wrapped with enough multicolor fairy-lights to illuminate Times Square.
It glitters, otherworldly, like the Carina Nebulae - where angels live.
It may be deliberately derivative, but I espouse joy this holiday - and general fun in the season. Call me privileged, call yourself the same, and declare it a blessing.
Earlier this week
all I wanted was sleep
but once freed of academic cares,
I curse sleep’s thievish minutes.
Now that I can look around - Paris is merry and bright.
The Champs‑Élysées axis is lit-up like Neverland and it’s used as a social runway.
There are cocktail evenings at the Ritz, Plaza Athénée, Le Meurice, George V, Crillon and Cheval Blanc - not a single “party” to book into, but an ecosystem of palaces crawling with ‘winter magic’ - code for quiet, exclusive, ‘famous people in the building' energy soirées.
How do you get into these private, no-tourist, DM pass-only events?
You don’t.
Oh, you might read about them if you follow the Paris nightlife Insta accounts (Silencio, Raspoutine, Castel, etc.)
But I’ll get in, because I have François for two weeks to coordinate all my ‘Christmas wishes’ (lucky him) and though he grouses from time to time, “Anais, I’m NOT a magician,” he’s never let us down.
It works like this, I’ll DM François what I want, “We’ll need 4 all‑access-passes for tomorrow night’s ‘Last Winter Tour’ (arena show) and voilà, it’s done.
Now Peter won’t go out every night, he has his own holiday ravishments planned - but isn’t that what mornings and afternoons are for?
.
.
A Christmas Playlist for this:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29.mp3
.
.
François, one of my Grandmère’s conglomerate, executive-secretarial minions. He’s handsome, 28ish, a perfectly tailored, hipster with straight, blonde, fringe-hair and a Sorbonne Université DBA.
Dec 19, 2025
Dec 19, 2025 at 10:52 PM UTC
Booze-cacklers
dystopic hyenas
circling around me
in optical turmoil
all to grasp
an illusive life
It will suffice
for neonlights-
don't judge the drunks
with darting eyes
but blame the hunger
for their demise
"All is well" inn
ill paradise
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 8:10 AM UTC
outside, the cold air
unwraps my skin.
i’m listening to a friend
tell us a story
that feels rehearsed,
meant to impress
but all i can think about
how sweet my drink is
and the length of that girl’s dress
across the street.
then i see him —
half-familiar, waving.
i don’t remember his name,
but he does me,
goes on about
jobs he’s changed
and the old team.
i’m the only one left.
he asks if life
is treating me well.
i nod.
he asks if i’m happy.
i look down,
searching for the answer
between cigarette ash
and concrete.
“if you need to think about it,”
he says,
“you’re not.”
his words stay with me
for the rest of the night,
then the week,
then the month.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 11:24 AM UTC
(A Christmas vacation vignette)
Lisa and I choppered onto Manhattan island yesterday morning. We’d both felt toasted—so we took naps—and yay! We awoke recharged.
Later that evening, Lisa and I were at the ‘Elsie’ Rooftop Bar, in Manhattan, waiting for Lisa’s boyfriend, David.
Ok, man-friend? More age appropriate I suppose, he’s 27, but that description doesn’t have the same bf slap.
Dave’s a Wall Street M&A guy and they’ve been together for over a year - a future for them seems very real.
Slinky, jazz-like versions of secular Christmas favorites were playing somewhere and it’s a groove I slipped into immediately. We had reservations and I’d misbegottenly hoped for a five-star, breathtaking city view, but the indoor tables turned out to have these uncomfortable, high-backed, bench-like seats that face away from the windows—WTF? I made a mental note to check website pix in the future. The place is in need of some serious feng shui-ing.
Disappointed, I asked for a side table where there was, at least, a pitiable skyline view and I placed my iPad, volume down, on the table so I could side-watch the Thursday Night football game—hey, I’m not meeting MY boyfriend, ok? As the official third-wheel, I figured I’d need a little entertainment.
After a few moments, a waitress came by and she paused to look us over with a cat-like indifference that signaled she was better than me, better than us really. She was just cooler.
I was delighted—why am I drawn to people who look down on me?
I suppose I need years of psychoanalysis—but who’s got the time?
I glanced at Lisa. We know each other at a cellular level. With a milli-second of lash flutterings and eye dilations, I asked “are you getting this?” And she affirmed that she was. Because we’re cyborgs. A couple of cyborgs.
Just kidding. We’re not cyborgs, neither of us. We wish we were sometimes—think of the advantages, you could complete college in a blink—wirelessly.
Anyway, back to the narrative. The waitress reminded me of when I was starting high school and my mom and I toured colleges, how snooty the Harvard people were, even though I’d been accepted and offered a free-ride scholarship—I mean, shouldn’t we all have been one, big, self-congratulatory snooty-group together?
(Of course, I chose Yale because the people were totally friendly).
“I better get used to it,” I side-bar’d Lisa, who got the reference to my upcoming, year-long, master's program at Harvard—because we’re cyborgs. I handed ‘Laura’ (our snooty waitress was tagged) my Black American Express card, which got her attention, and said, “start a tab please—someone will join us—run a 40% tip too,” I added with a smile. She practically jogged off to get our drinks and hors d'oeuvres and I turned my attention to the game, you know, to catch up.
I love Pro football—it’s not really fall without football—is it? Even though Tom Brady retired. This all goes to say that I’m a pro football ****** Lisa likes it too, though she’s not totally obsessed.
Just after Laura brought us our martinis and ‘poached lobster’ slides, a random, well-dressed man (he was wearing an expensive Brioni, wool linen silk suit), 35-ish, receding mousy-brown hairline, high-ball glass in hand, took the opportunity to stop by and chat. “SO,” he said, in a deep, jolly, ice-breaking salesman’s voice,
“You girls like football?”
I decided that the suit was too shiny for a Brioni—was it a Zegna?—I idly wondered.
“We’ve boyfriends,” Lisa announced, almost apologetically, nodding to include me—in case he missed the plural. Undeterred, he swiveled my way—as if he needed a second opinion—and asked me,
“What do you like about football?” He sounded somewhat condescending to me, so I did what I always do with condescending males—I played the ‘ditzy-girl’ card, “The costumes,” I answered.
“The uniforms,” he gently, fatherly, corrected—before rocking back a little on his heels and sipping his drink.
“And the hats,” I updogged, but before he could digest my reply, David, Lisa’s man-friend, arrived on the scene.
“Sorry to be so late,” he said, giving me a little, jiggly, 4-finger wave, shedding his coat and giving Lisa a smooch on the top of her hair.
The salesman wordlessly took his leave.
It’s a night on the town—let the 3rd-wheeling begin!
.
.
Songs for this:
Diamond Dave by The Bird and the Bee
You Belong to Me by Vonda Shepard
.
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And a Christmas Playlist - because the big day is 8 days away!
http://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_24.mp3
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 2:00 PM UTC
I spread my wings tonight
It's 9pm
Driving through Cypress
Trying to keep the tears from
mixing with the late night lights
and narrow roads
The night is getting weary
It's 11pm by now
Four long hours to go
The windows slide down
to reveal the bitter cold
that chips at my lips
Nothing feels like home
but I know I'll be okay
Dec 12, 2024
Dec 12, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
the sky is sopping up
smears of weather from the city day
filling out darkly
the portly host of the eve ushers us into warm dens
nature starts the night shift
it appraises
this night is rat dog recovering from urban filth
rolling in grass dew and spoil
the tainting of the air is contributed to from abroad
migration of contraband fumes (forest fires out west)
and the heat raises
too populated to hold a proper witching hour
the night in shifts
any slumber has its quality watered down
the constant street activity
weeping sunrise nights excuses stopper inebriation rests
arrested blight morning light and everything about
your crushable body smiles naked things
i roll over to face the uncurtained window
hunch out of bed and stilt my way
to support my self at the sill
overcast with an invasive muffle of smog
members of the bright-time pooling for occupation
do not remember the night
it's simply poor sleep
Jun 9, 2024
Jun 9, 2024 at 8:04 PM UTC
“22½ euros for a Martini,” Peter remarked, when he first scanned the menu.
“It’s not like we aren’t going to get them,” I said, “we’re not going to cheap our way to abstinence." The waiter came and I gave him my card, “Put that table on this card too, please,” (pointing to Charles’s table).
It’s a cool night in Paris and doof-doof music’s slammin’ from a stack of Mackie DJs. It’s about 53°f, but they have those umbrella heaters at every table and other heaters that blew warmer air on the dance floor (maybe not a great idea). Peter and I have a table on the terrace, out under a muted, light polluted starfield.
We danced, we debated the issues of the day, like, when will Taylor dump Kelcie and what were the best Oscar movies? (We chose ‘Poor Things’ and ‘Past Lives’). We ate Steak au Poivre with Red Wine Sauce and then we danced some more. We were having fun.
But when a party turns into ***** mayhem it’s time to leave - or is it? Watching the shadowy edges of things, I asked Peter, “It’s getting CrAzY, wanna go?”
“It’s just getting interesting,” he answered.
I squinted at him, was he serious? I couldn’t tell - martinis scramble my amygdala.
I decided to flow with it. “Ok, freak, get me another then.” I said, calling his bluff, and sliding my glass his way.
As he left for the bar, I glanced at my watch, 2am. It felt like 10 pm to us American east-coasters.
I looked around and Charles and Chinthia (Mrs.Charles) were laughing and chatting away.
‘You GO, old people,’ I thought - not unkindly.
Peter came back, two martinis in one hand, snapping pics with the other.
“Stop!” I barked, holding my hands up like I was fighting off paparazzi, “stop!”
I’ve learned things, like how, in early pics, when we arrive at a party, I look like Mary Poppins - but in end-of-party pix l look like Norma Desmond. Peter doesn’t see it - but I do.
I sipped at my new drink - It tasted sour and bitter as sin - I made a face. Peter cackled like a villain in a low budget flick. “It’s a Winston Churchill,” he reported knowingly, “they were out of vermouth.”
When the bar runs out of vermouth, it means something. I pressed the walkie-talkie app on my watch and asked Charles, “You guys ready to go?” He didn’t look around but gave me a thumbs-up just before they rose.
My mom and (step)dad have joined us, at Grandmère’s, for this vacation. I was gleeful, at first, but it’s like my mom hasn’t noticed I’m not in high school anymore - that I grew-up in their three-year absence. I get pressed when she thinks I’m slouching, rearranged when my hair’s out of place and shown a pained, icy face if I order a martini.
She’s piercing the membrane of my privacy and expecting obeisance! I tried to explain it, like an adult. “There are multiple value systems,” I gently reminded her. My Grandmère even suggested Peter move into his own room. Luckily, Peter and my rooms adjoin and she put my parents on another floor (in the suite she grew up in).
I’m secretly afraid they’ll be up when we get in, that it’s 10pm for them too and I’ll get ‘the face.’ I told Charles about my situation and he said, “Look, she’s missed you, she’s just lavishing you with attention, she’ll relax,” but his oceanic optimism seems.. hopeful. We’ll see ??
Mar 14, 2024
Mar 14, 2024 at 10:39 PM UTC
~
*stationary now
duct tape loves
mouth and hands
inside removable interiors
heliocentric discontinuities:
the racket club
and the backstroke
the rabid club
and the hallucinogenic backchannels
swallowing too many placebos
on his balcony
facing away from the sun
blank diary entry
open on the table
'from despair to where?'
stationary in the trunk now
he says it will all
make sense soon*
~
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 7:44 PM UTC
Sleuthing drunkenly in a car home.
My nature subdued by the foul
nature of the world.
Gay club I leave my body hanging out to dry.
I can show every but ever moment of myself
and I love every send of it.
Belly is out.
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 11:11 PM UTC
before finding solace in the meadow that lies in your eyes,
I found peace in the way silken lavender would melt into an orange & pink sorbet;
but as I lie here now, cradled in the comfort of your arms, I find that I dread sunrise
most find the dark unsettling — shutting themselves off when midnight strikes;
but in the moonlight, is when we shine the brightest — when we thrive, when we are the most alive
Aug 15, 2022
Aug 15, 2022 at 2:06 PM UTC
I'm an owl
behind a window watching
this wayward city wagging its
tail in silence.
Jul 8, 2022
Jul 8, 2022 at 12:35 PM UTC
Am I an empty cup
Are my contents used up
Or are you still filling
Only to be over spilling
I’m about to topple over
From the stress around my corners
So hurry lift me up
And please drink up
Mar 30, 2022
Mar 30, 2022 at 3:42 PM UTC
It was suggested that we wear something comfortable (especially shoes) and that we bring a cover. I wore a black one-shoulder bow-tied satin mini dress and G Ballet Flats and I was able to fold a sheer shirt into my tiny purse (for a later cover).
The stretch limo pulled into our driveway.
“Is it prom night already?” my brother Brice snarked.
“Be careful,” my mom said sternly, pulling my short dress down a bit. “you have your phone?”
I rolled my eyes, produced my phone and she made sure “Find my” was working.
“You’re staying at Bili’s (my BFF), ya?”, she confirmed. “You three stick TOGETHER.”, she adds.
“Yes mam.” we answer, with nods all around.
As Bili, Kim (my 2 BFFs) and I excitedly settled in, the boat-like car moved smoothly off into the night. There were ten of us - five guys and five girls - but no set “dates”.
Everett (nick-named “Ev”), all business at the moment, made sure he had all of our cell phone numbers - which he sent back to us as a custom contact list called “Dance Monkeys”, HA! Then he pushed a button or two, the interior lights dimmed, background music filled the air, a partition lowered and a bar appeared. The club, in Atlanta, was an hour away.
The cover charge for the Havana club VIP lounge is $500 a person (but you get a “free” drink). Everett waved, said, “Eddie!” and two Dwayne Johnson clones parted like a bank vault door. We passed through an airlock-like foyer where “Ev’s” polite apple-pay tap allowed the ten of us to enter the industrial looking, VIP lounge area.
A pretty girl dressed in black leather named Holly was our “steward” for the night - Everett, our guide to pleasure, passed her our cell number list. A second later we all received the message, “Hi!, I’m Holly - text me if you need anything.”
We passed through one last set of black glass doors and I practically flinched as the night exploded into shards of light, ear grinding bass riffs and pure, laser-lit decadence. “Holy crap,” I said - I couldn’t hear myself so I knew no one else could either - my arms prickled - it felt like the room was 45 degrees.
We were led through an ocean of writhing people below a live, aerial, Cirque du Solei like ballet display. Video played on every inch of wall space - the song “Get out of my head” played like a jet engine - the video was skin on every surface - the effect was stunning and somewhat disorienting.
Eventually, we came to a private “cabana” where we settled in.
Someone pulled my arm and I was out on the dance floor. **** THIS is what I’d been missing - FUN.
Every few songs I was able to get back to the table and gulp whatever drink was at my seat but then someone pulled my arm and again, I was out on the dance floor. The club seemed to morph with every video - the crowd roared each time a favorite cut, like “Wasted love” began.
I was offered, more than once, a triangular pill with an “X” on it - we (Bili, Kim and I) were pretty sure it was ecstasy. We passed on it. However, it seemed a tray of shooters arrived at our cabana every 5 minutes.
There were half-assed horderves, but I hadn’t really eaten and after about 90 minutes of shooters and dancing I was starting to spin. Then, like magic or an unconscious prayer, the field of dancers parted for - a pizza delivery!!
Ok, now, in my animal-like hunger, I’m thinking maybe Everett is a genius. People at other cabanas point and eye us with naked envy. No one else thought of this. I greedily, unladylikely help myself to a life-saving slice of cheesy heaven and groan with pleasure at each new bite.
I’m greedy for more than pizza.
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 9:15 AM UTC
I look at city lights
in the distance
They flicker
but quickly come back
and I feel that someone
somewhere understands
while the night air
awakens my warm skin
It gives us hope
new life
Jun 17, 2021
Jun 17, 2021 at 10:19 PM UTC
We were once well acquainted
with the wee small hours
adept at navigating neon jungles
and the deeps of kitchen philosophies
entwined with kebabs and illicit frissons,
in vino veritas conspiracies
that took weeks to unpick and apologise for
but passed
Now, if seen, those hours hold different snags,
surrounding plants are far less exotic
but familiar brambles cut deep,
immutable truths roar
when the ***** doesn’t do the talking
and morning burrs not so easily dislodged
by a full English and a million teas
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 2:47 AM UTC
Poem written waiting outside the club
that my brother and I frequent
together -
scene:
a hundred mouths breathe clouds
into the biting air,
cold of a Friday night
security at the door, screaming
a sea of voices asking
"can you take me in with you? I'm not old enough"
and the growling of boys half drunk
already
my brother tall, pushed against me
Poem written at the back of the club
that my brother and I frequent
together -
and scene:
us, scouring the dancefloor together
us, drinking ***** lemon on the sidelines
us, stretching necks to see if we
know anyone in here,
half-poised to
escape
should we need to
(we don't want to see others)
Poem written standing at the bar
that my brother and I
frequent together -
this scene:
spilled on the dark, chipped wood
euro bills
sticky cocktails
nose blood
and my hand, washed
in the mix
of liquids
it is 2 a.m.
Poem written waiting outside the toilets
that my brother and I
frequent
apart -
now, scene:
him, nowhere to be found
line, endless
girls, loud and crying, laughing
and my foot tapping
nervously
to the bass that makes
the walls vibrate
and shake
Poem written in the parking lot of the club
that my brother and I
just squeezed out of -
last scene:
him, sober, hands on steering wheel
my eyes, unfocused, trained on
the electric blue of his car radio
playing our after-club mix
coming down, silently
no words between us
only deep-bassed beats
and intoxicated breath
our minds as spent
and exhausted
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 4:54 PM UTC
T minus minus 40 cents
This rocket fuel runs hot
Like blasting ****** through your veins
Its worth its worth a shot
I did i did a 40 shot
It rung my ******* bell
It ****** it ****** me up so bad
I lost my sense of smell
My eyes are twitching outta sync
My guts my guts are clenched
I think five oh is on the porch
I hope we dont get lynched
Im absent, gone, in outer space
I wrecked my rusty rocket
I know tho know tho how **** go tho
2 spares are in my pocket
I'll take one and I'll take one
I'll stay in tight formation
And pick up pick up dime line hoes
From down in Choctaw Nation
My back my back aches constantly
From breaking rocks, I guess
I swear I swear one day one day
I'll settle down, do less
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 4:36 AM UTC