deepundergroundpoetry.com
A Strangled Shout
She's dying on her feet, he holds her up,
the derby carries on, regardless of their slip
to horses pulped for glue. The derby cup
observes the treads across the boards of chip
and blood. How much longer they last is down
to whether need can triumph over bone,
the once gay heels now slick with red, the gown
of blinking sequins drenched to limpid stones.
His own black shirt mere threads below
the torture of the heating lights, about
a dancefloor ringed with glee, a blow
to common decency, the dancers just a strangled shout.
the derby carries on, regardless of their slip
to horses pulped for glue. The derby cup
observes the treads across the boards of chip
and blood. How much longer they last is down
to whether need can triumph over bone,
the once gay heels now slick with red, the gown
of blinking sequins drenched to limpid stones.
His own black shirt mere threads below
the torture of the heating lights, about
a dancefloor ringed with glee, a blow
to common decency, the dancers just a strangled shout.
Published 24th Jul 2023
Author's Note
Inspired by They Shoot Horses, Don't They?, a 1935 novel by Horace McCoy and 1969 Sydney Pollack film (which you can watch for free on YouTube as of this writing) about a real-life dance craze that swept America during the Depression, where couples would compete for a cash prize to keep dancing the longest and sometimes last literally months, taking only 15-minute breaks every few hours.
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