It started in his fingertips.

Through the technicolor fog

of bubblegum sweat and sweet liquor,

I saw them glow,

           like pink fireflies

steady with the beat of the bash,

          the saccharine bass wafting along

the current of collective breath

                                              and want

he swayed his half-naked hips

and with each dip,

          the glow hardened

silky beat turned brash

                              fingertips flashing

figure jutting         and frantic

                     a warning

as he raised bony arms to the ceiling

                                          in praise

                                          devoting himself to the night

                                          the pulse of pleasure

                                          the rancid mass of glittering bodies

                                   that joined him,

                    everyone in their paradise comas

                                         slipping

                    between

                                         each other

                    like gears

                                         in some fucked-up party machine

it was      impossible

                      and      bewitching

it was

                       a neon ritual

             for the faithless