Disco Inferno

Back in the days,
a girl screamed,
panicked,
ran.

It was then,
far away from
pulsating 125 bpm stabs,
lingering Rhodes licks
and 2 cool 4 school
Detroit London Berlin
turntable demigods,

in a decade long gone,
but echoing through the
shallow plastic of one ten
and the soulless urban rage
of the next,

which brought us here
26 years and counting,

me and a golden
depravity age,
one fading
and the other
shaping, seeping,
swallowing the zeitgeist
of his own days.

Because
back in the days
she screamed,
and ran.

But not alone.

"Hey, are you ok?
Come here, sit down.
Breathe girl, breathe!"

Back in the days,
when glamour was not
the ironic jestful mask
of a too young too jaded
x-marked generation,

but a real, dead serious,
demanded statement,
dreaming sex, self esteem
and social high.

Back in the days
the girl screamed,

as the shards
of sharp crystal
flooded her vision,
and a clean note
that only she heard,
louder than thought
sang in her ears.

Because
too much dance,
dreams, beats, beauty,
holler and high
took it's toll,

and blew a fuse
in an overloaded
gray matter matrix.

It happens still,
always will.
From the seedy speakeasy
to the disco inferno
to the turntable snakepit.

One of them every day
at the very least.

Vouge, vibe, rhythm
sweat, flesh, flash
and a little bit too much
of whatever high
they can get their
hands on
will always trigger
the terror.

Because noboby reads
the warning signs.
Are there any?

Somebody will scream
panic
run.

Often alone.
But sometimes followed,
cared about,
and a new story,
dimensionally
unlike this one,
just might begin.

Thank you for following,
Father.