Orange Tans In The Club Be Shining In The Blacklight Poem by John W. McEwers

It's Friday night
and the next day is the weekend
and I am ready for a brawl
with better sense.

Cold pressed violence juice
slosh in the glasses
that we all hold high
swaying to Gogol Bordello
which is a strange choice
for a dance club
but my feet won't stop
doing this frisky thing.

The ladies are orange.
But I'll drink the pulp.
The guys are orange
and their arms are tattooed
and they all bounce.

The blacklights blind
the finer movements,
and all the orange bodies
redshift
the speed of blacklight
the rush of booze,
it is all a blur.

They liquefy, all the orange bodies,
into a hot clay soup.

Through all the sweat
all I smell is the pungent flutter of popcorn,
lonely in the red machine in the corner,
like John,
the lone outsider,
the thing that does not belong.

Popcorn is more nutritious than they tell you.
It can be eaten as a meal
with Parmesan cheese.