Drawn by senses pulling underground

We fill the weekend night again,

Determined we will spill a million selves who never come of age.

 

We are swarming fetish butterflies,

Whose daytime chrysalises sit

Cocooned in drawstring bags and holdalls ready for the outside world.

 

And like giant insects, flitting Moth-men

Buzzing round bright light and scent,

We all will vanish when the rainbow lens becomes an honest white.

 

We must share, right now, a burning moment

Filled with wispy visions, dance, desire 

And the interwoven need for privacy and exhibition.

 

We can feed our simple urge, right here -

And growl our hunger out beneath the bass,

While back and forth our venery explodes in writhing half-dark corners.

 

We are midnight Mayfly men, now shining

In our short-lived, monthly glory.

While the hour is here we flash our skins and play our simple game.

 

But when the four-four liberation stops

And bars again are nine-to-five,

These ‘other’ selves will fold their wings and hibernate until the call.