CLICK!*
Inky black pervades the humid club
as sticky bodies, swathed in white,
dig and **** at each other,
vying for an inch or a foot or a mile.
For those few stygian seconds
the heaving throng is silent,
fervent excitement and suspense
pulsating through the sweaty mass
like a coveted contagion,
until the stage lights come up,
a blinding spectacle of whites and
violets, daring the crowd to blink,
lest we miss the anticipated entrance.
Finally, the group arrives,
a ghastly spectacle of half-naked flesh
framed with vicious horns and alien body
armor—metallic spikes, blades, and skulls.
They grab their ancient instruments,
introduce themselves as the Scumdogs of
the Universe, and unleash a torrent
of notes so loud, clashing, and violent
that my eardrums cry aloud in protest.
The notes pulsate through the bar,
a cloudburst of liquid metal that
engulfs every heaving body.
Immediately, the waxen sea erupts
into a storm, thrashing and writing
in a heated frenzy so fevered and
chaotic that an uninformed observer
might believe he was witnessing a
a mass seizure—or a barbaric ****.
While the music assaults my chest
cavity, little circles open up amongst
the heaving mob, and people of all
shapes and sizes run in vicious circles,
limbs thrown about haphazardly,
tempestuous bruise-makers.
The temperature in the club rises,
as does the stench of cheap beer
and unadulterated body odor,
but suddenly, the melody ceases.
A greasy, ****** fellow joins the band,
and gives a self-righteous speech before
the first lambs are brought to slaughter.
Caricatures of political figures, more than
seven feet tall, stumble onto the dais—
forced into a faux boxing ring.
The throng howls like a pack
of bloodthirsty wolves as the entertainers
sever counterfeit limbs, purposefully
sending a shower of red cornstarch
over our hungry, eager faces.
In the midst of the flailing crowd
I am pushed closer to the stage,
and am bathed in this homage
to human nature, this gladiatorial
spectacle. It is a fight to the death,
and culminates in a beheading,
which unleashes a deluge of
costume blood into the congregation
with such force that I can taste
its sickly sweet satire in my mouth.
