Disco

from a memory of how it was

Pretty little butterflies

dancing in the light,

with escorts bold 

and brooding

waiting out the night;

like moths they are,

like moths drawn to a flame,

with ice cold eyes

and lustful lips

that never ask your name.

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

Moths, butterfly wannabees. This does take me back, and you have the eyes, the lips, and the rest all down to a T.

[h d e rushin]

the dubiety of this poem stresses a wavering between the conclusions of faith, truth , fairness
and reality. I am old enough to remember Disco and how the word itself charged us into believing
that we could be ambiguous dancers as well as glittering lovers. Even, as my memory reminds me,
we were neither.

I use to stay up way past 2:00 AM listening to Gloria Gaynor tell me "I will survive". Now that I have
my wish that some of it wasn't true. Memory, that thing we throw our hands up and surrender to,
is both barbarous and uncivilized.

disco makes me think outloud......great poem my friend....dana