4AM ceilings

DARKNESS AND FLASHING STROBES, thumping bass and fake machine smoke. Several drinks spilt on me. Room sticky, people bouncing like it's going to explode. But I'm a burden to myself, fifty down at the bar and still clinging tightly onto too much care. If I could move in such direction, if my head was like the wind, I'd shake this place like it's never been shaken before, I'd harness the essence like I always lived at it's core. But my limbs are useless, their rhythm a discoursed process, my mind sways around too much that is broken, this venue, part of the stain that remains. She looks at me and tells me to 'smile'. But my world is filled with such improbabilities, though I chance them, I fear they won't be bought out. Again she tells me to smile, this time not with words, but an exaggerated action of the lips. I lack skill I tell myself, I fall short of such abilities and talent although I try so hard. To listen to this Justin Beiber/One Direction remixed bullshit something something, marketed billion dollar industry prepackaged social engineering. We celebrate and propose love in the shadow of a fat alco-pop promoting beast. We feed it money. We feed it money. We feed it money. Dropping hundreds at the bar, in this club, patrons of pricey short-lived liberation. I desire nothing of it and wonder how I got here, a conflict to all this place imparts. I contemplate running on stage and punching the DJ in the face. I'm picking up the turntable and smashing it on the floor. Static screeches and reverberates like the devil screaming in the silence, the crowd's footsteps suddenly take on sound. They are all looking at me blankly and I'm holding a broken cable in my hand. "I am your liberator" I say and their expressions exude confusion. She looks at me again and this time I receive no prompt or instruction. It seems I am amused and now fluidly moving. Laughing as the bass-line reverberates through my body I realize that the world is doomed. It's heart is artificial. The life support system stupid! In one hand you take Ronald McDonald, in the other hand Simon Cowell favoured X-Factor/Idol runner-up from year 2003 singing Ring a Ring o' Roses.

Ring-a-ring o' roses,

A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down.

But there is a girl on the other side of the circle. She smiles at you like she is aware of the con. There is a bass-line that somehow matches both of your heartbeats. There is hope, light, the lyrics plausible. When the alcohol takes effect Justin Beiber suddenly becomes a bard, an oracle. And who is that random guy rapping? What the f*** is he saying? Somehow the doomed plight of the world descends metaphorically and you become some sort of hopeful doe eyed protagonist.

Dancing.