There is cell death in everything tonight – in the bass-lines and the double-pedal drum. In the dancer in tights and trainers. Cell death in the lights that cut thought the smoke, spilled beer puddles and trampled plastic pint-pots. Cell death in the man by the ticket office with glitter in his hair. Cell death through the metal detectors at the door. Cell death in the fine hairs at the back of my neck and on the shoulders of the two punks kissing in the dark. A pressure vessel without a relief valve. Cell death buckling flesh that holds me together. Cell death euphoria as the club bursts open.
- Benjamin F Jones
Cell death in the fine hairs at the back of my neck.
Brilliantly written, although I’d rather avoid that type of shrapnel myself. as am too old and off it for that sort of thing these days.
Too old for clubbing! Sounds like a novel title to me.
This piece describes perfectly how I feel right now.
Hope you survive and get the glitter out of your hair.
Oh, there’s no getting the metaphorical glitter out of my hair:D
Nice. A good way to be. May we swap many glitter tales.
Which is in itself a great line for a prose poem!
Ha! So it is!