Night clubs, back-alleys and all the wrong reasons

 
The beer-cellar smell of a daytime night club,
sticks to the stale ale carpets and painted purple corners,
dark enough to mask the taint of bleach and vomit.

But at night, the lights writhe in a snake pit of color,
sweat arcs the air like blood splatter patterns,
tunes revolve the room. Head back shot glass harmonics,
burst inhibitions in Prosecco bubbles, before they fall flat.

Outside behind the bins, the exit sign
dims and glows above a drunken clash
of teeth and hips, stricken sailing ships,
split masts wrapped around the midriff.
Below decks the crew blindly follow orders,
shot loaded and fuse set, a single cannon
separates the wrecks.

The forgotten mistake of a dank tiny flat,
clings to the smell of damp washing and nappies,
enough to hide the false smiles of the strangers.