ElectroNerd
Midnight fancy
Trainspotter in the dark,
alors, no tracks, no engines,
just a swelling sound nearing
and a calling; he’s a mess, he’s
untidy and the bobbing of his
glasses indicate he wants to
dance. Brushing by slicked-back
hair, the push on his eardrums
of the air cast the scientific spell
that dreams to dare: thoughts of
groovination feed what he exudes,
that belly mesmerizing flow and
quiver, the uneasy good-feel
expectant awesome awakened
in the bass of the situation, sparkled
with high hats smiling, oh,
the girls, the girls, moving well,
the female specie causes such a
daze as he sways his hips and their
hair guides as light stroboscopic flares
of glittering smells, and his arms
go up and down then side to side
(god, if it weren’t for her tobacco
suicide) and more vigor do more
rocking pelvis, yeah, feel good, he
dons the beats like a plaid pattern;
she slips past, her breasts accidentally
burn through flannel and sting like love,
harder dancing, he looks up, puckers up,
sexy, sexy, beast, oh my, he feels,
at least he got a laugh out of that one.
