Blind Disco

(a poem for Sunday)

Stars flutter and flap
but when you look closer
you see they're only floating dust particles
small dirty seagulls in a distant dawn
because stars just glow faintly
like sticks swung by midday ravers
in a cave with flashing colors
it's the strobe light
contorting faces, disfiguring movement
time beholden to pulsing techno
electronic tremble bounces
cigarette butts and plastic cups
scurry along, on their way,
flowing yet bound to the rhythm,
crashing into peeling walls
staring between sets,
looking-up to see stars flutter and flap
but instead greeted by pasty faces
lost in the blind disco

(because it's all a bit random):