Blood on The Dance Floor

By Farook Abdul-karim Sesay, Writer. Poet. Legal advisor. Political commentator

Crimson. Vibrant red. Rich tapestry. The dance floor shimmers/ a kaleidoscopic array of colours. But red as crimson as blood dominated/ Stained stench.The crowd burgeoning. As the smoke thickens. The alcohol hits the senses. Flesh searching for flesh. Both the ideal and the available. Each search intense as the smoke becomes palpable. Like corpses cremated/

Stripped bare to the soul their shadows abandoned them. Only the dance floor beckons. To dance away feelings Betrayed and cursed!/ for the night is alive. Nothing else matters! Dreams lanced. Visions. Victims of jaundiced cataracts. Forsaken. Time Lost/

Blood on the dance floor. Slippery. Crimson. Twirling trails of twisted taps of tango shoes/ Heats off seduced gyrating entwined at the hips. Whores like foes. Breath laced with booze/

Blood on the dance floor the speakers boomed. Like looming thunder from the depths of acrimony/ strangers watching strangers. Drunks staggered on the dance floor. Most divorced. With alimony to pay at dawn. Trapped. Strapped of money/

Blood on the dance floor the revellers gyrated. Serrated passion. Cocooned desires/ sweat. Thoughts. Repressed. Suffocating their creators. Creatures. Yearning for long forbidden needs. Stored away like delirium. Turned serum. In urns embedded in fake sapphires/

Some dance to forget. Others dance to remember! Through the crack of dawn voices fade and desires parade. Yet no one looks at the exit door/the feet and shoes feel like reluctant partners. Shy lovers kissing. Movements now like a vanquished matador/

Blood on the dance floor. Stained with taboo desires. Stench reeking of wanton needs. Soiled appetites shrouded in coy smiles/ Decoys and snags of leering stags.Twilight long kissed good night. Slight breeze filled nostrils with stale sweat. Mingled with Faded fragrance. Dizzy. Eddy. A haunting craving distilled in the air. Swirling and twirling. Preys crouching low. predators sandwiched between stiles/

“Blood on the dance floor!” The gramophone crooned. “This is the final song!” The DIsc Jockey shouted. A hoarse yet husky voice. Soaked in cheap whiskey/ drags in stilettos tapped the floor. Hips swayed. Lazily gyrated. Fedoras touched. One last song they knew. Eyes locked. Raw and brazen desires danced and hunted. For their preys. Hope brushed against their lips. Lurking in their eyes.To be lucky!/

*Farook Abdul-karim Sesay*

Writer. Poet. Legal advisor. Political commentator