Part 2 of Poem Marathon. This one is the poem version of part of a short story I was writing. I found that I'm much better at poems because they are closer to writing songs. The inspiration came from going to a club in South Carolina and sitting on the edge of the room disgusted by the entire scene.
The rainbow array of lights seizured around the ceiling.
Bodies magnetized by sweat and spiced cologne
gyrated around traps of sticky puddles that
splashed from the rims of mixed drinks.
Hips and hands did all the moving, they did all the talking.
Gazes were driven by the prospect of sex and
body language preoccupied their limbs, making them forget to tread.
No limbs circling or scissor kicking to stay afloat.
He used to be a charmer, conjuring spells and
weaving fabrications to make girls believe in him.
Living an alias for a single night, killing
off the character that she fell in love with.
Josh, Ryan, Nick, Steve, and Greg all disappeared
at the climax of their story. He had become a
hunter with a smile, mounting trophies on his bedpost
instead of the wall.
Living as Ben tonight, molded with a girl, working his
incantations on her drunken ears. He summoned her name
and she said Roselyn, his Grandmother's name.
The charm vanished as those pewter eyes pierced the roof
from the clouds. His ancient example of a woman
and why to respect them. Her regard, her care,
her unconditional love now had conditions.
His knees cracked the ground, palms compressing his brain,
fingers snagging his hair, and the gyrating mass opened up,
leaving him with the only private place in the building.
A foot and a half radius of space between him and the mob of sex
was a separate universe catalyzing an instantaneous evolution.
He dug a deep rectangle into his brain, kicking the monster into the grave,
but before he filled the dirt he raised the shovel into the air with both hands.
Muscles and gravity drove the metal tip into its throat.
Two inches of neck were gone and the shovel was removed.
Another strike and three more inches ere torn.
Two more gone, three more gone, and only four inches of skin
and vertebrae and veins held the head to the monster.
The shovel raised towards the sky and met with the ground,
passing through the last four inches of his past.