Air thick

with sweat and ethanol

and scents strong enough

to kill at fifteen feet, wound

at thirty. Limbs full

of amber-filled glassware

that apologise out of feigned respect

and part the sea back

to their transient homes.

 

Darting and

moving to the beat of

everyone and the incessant noise;

a faux libation to a god

they’ve never heard of:

alcohol and electro,

wine and music, if you listen

closely enough, you can hear that Dionysian heart

breaking.

 

Heraclean wannabes

putting on shows of primitive strength

and foolishness, peacocks

dancing, their tails spread out

like painful nightmares draped

in awkward silences, seeking a validation

they can’t seem to recognise.

 

Girls with skin on fire, glowing vainly

and garbed to suit,

water-boarding those peacocks

with pheromones, playground teasers

using genetically given gifts

to fool those fools for the sake

of my voyeuristic amusement.

 

It’s all enough

to make Schopenhauer

vomit, but

he was probably wrong

anyway.

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