Top Floor

 
We spin
in the continuum of nothingness,
as if faded
and music is more blood than pulse,
more brain than bone.
I watch a fly -
he crawls the deep blue wall
above our heads where projected
are streams of inconsistent neon light,
hone in on piano notes
between bass, and buzz,
the three, four, eight, sixteen of it,
let my hips do the talking,
eating, coiling around the banquet of all of it,
every person, every glass, every mirror.
She sways
as if no one ever told her
no one fuck cares,
no one is watching,
we all existing
on the edges of existence
and that
nothing matters,
when we are all fumbling deliciously
through an atmosphere of absent-minded matter,
beyond mattering,
merely warming each other,
skin to skin,
one step closer,
one smooth slip,
one exposed breath
at a time.