the throbs of the nightclub
terrorize the edges of visage
pulsating with coloration abounding
it's a point that drenches
my body in a relatively transcendent
state, high high, on cloud nine

hands on my face
lips only on mine
dancing, moving like a 
demon possessed, tormenting
my limbs, taken over by
the sound of the music
undulating in my ears,
throb throb throb, and her
lips are trailing moondust down
the unmarked marsh of my neck
sucking to generate a symbol
an injury of passion that
joins among more of its kin
lips back to mine
then around, and around