the Destruction of word(s)

Dance Party Poetics of a Hipster


Aren’t we all like 45’s
circulating round and round
until wearing out the grooves?

Vinyl sleeves pave the path
to dancefloor breakdowns
by Stax horn players and P.P. Arnold

Crooning Motown love odes before
every phrase had been muttered
soulful shakes of the stereo treble.

Intimate hand clasps at midnight
swingers represent the style of Mod(ern) fashion
skinny black ties and the backbeat.

Dance, a representation of reality
Do the Dog, the Monkey, Funky Chicken
layers of sound captured it all.

Baby was neither endearing
or over-the-top sensational sentiment
a part of me wants to return yet grass is greener.

One step out of time, retro passion
for another period neither here or there,
what would you revive back then?

Targeted for pleasure principle tactics
no cards or Queen of spades to play just raw emotion
sub-culture meant so much more as counter-culture.

Instead of a passionate follower
of clouded days blue rain bellows from over head angles
grey eye shadow two steps down the face in arrowhead streams.

The dance never seemed to break
only for a dissident seconds (split for a drink or 2)
if so the steady thump and bump drove the youth wild.