Tanqueray's

Intoxicated by dance and
the quiet sexuality of
rubbing shoulders with strangers,
she propped up my downtrodden face
with her benevolent fingers and
sang into my eager ear,
"Everything is magic if only
you'd rub the ashes from your eyes."

With an insatiable bare back
she pried my pupils wide open:
two black holes
where time loses its linearity -
I haven't been found in years.

Numbers and words were pulverized
under the primal force
of a kick drum,
our stories told in unison
through the melody of a guitar.
The night snuffed out the darkness,
the morning a lingering
scent of fresh nostalgia.
Happiness is a madman's game.