Drop

Penned in by synths, a proto-prophet echoes
the ghosts of future past. Everyone cheers,
their limbs jerked by the strings she sings, as shadows
bow to the strobe’s sublimity.  The floors
so hot we just can’t keep our feet off them
are slick with piss and beer. A drunken boy
crouched by the speakers, in donation bin
attire, puts a hand out for more liquor
and everyone cheers. Nips and forties appear
and time starts skipping in a syncopation.
What falls away is always and is near
someone remarks, and like a confirmation
the speaker falls on the boy. Everyone cheers.
The music keeps pulsing, pouring out of his ears.