A spurt of smoke lacerates the air – a musky haze,
it lingers, then dissipates through beams of cheap disco lights.
Absent tiles expose a ramshackle gable hanging overhead;
the pending danger diverted by a G&T –
ice and a slice to make the cliché complete.
Stereotypes sit in a row, like dominoes waiting to topple,
they inspect the new meat, as if judges at a cattle market.
Here, however, the price you pay is not of coin, but of soul.
Fermented vapours drift from between wiry lips,
as memorable melodies play like Abba to a dated dance-beat.
Promiscuity loiters in a dank corner of the room,
and Gluteus Maximus, is once again, the star of the show.
A fussy, burnt smell floods nostrils as another spurt ejaculates;
like hairspray gently settles on anything it can find, a crust forms.
Through murk – good times – only for the initiated few; mind,
the rest gawp in awe at the multi-coloured land that time forgot.