The sticky, sweaty environment of any club in a university town seems almost too similar to the conditions of the wild: it is all too easy to imagine the stalking groups of individuals as packs of hyenas, accompanied by the dulcet tones of an Attenborough narration between the throbbing beat of edgy house tunes. Yet, though clubbing is primitive, unsophisticated and chaotic, and involves surrendering oneself wholly to inebriated liberty, we will remain yearning for the thrill only it can supply.

Out to impress?

Shots

I watched as others, in psychotropic limelight,

Stalked inebriated prey over flooded plain

Treading stubbed butts and glass that jumped at touch

Of vibrations of bass in this denim hunt.

And then, amalgamation of lip with lip created

hinge of skin; deep broken cannibal bite

That drew me in

 

And I too assented to this violation, forged

reciprocal piece with my body,

touched tongue to tongue and

rasped lubrications of uvula.

 

(And, later, I ripped cotton from polyester,

Took soap to mouth and cleansed with fury,

Became foaming teeth and burning tongue

 

But his taste, his touch, is never gone.)