dances we do in cold weather.

in greys and muted reds, they're shooting a music video.
all natural light. glasgow rarely looks so post-chilled
chill.

the last time a calm this deep landed
in a grey-grit town
it was Manchester,
after someone's comedown lent them
the necessary zen for life epiphanies,
the sort between scheme and high-rise,

leap and landing. the records never sold,
but the books about making them did.

i guess we were all so young, we didn't know what we were doing, really
there's always a suspicion, in weather like this,
that the next minutes will bring back Death
in full-cloaked glory, voiced by the seven most ominous
actors we can think of, overdubbed, re-looping
a constant thud, while we, like a great stream of
rats, follow him into warehouse catacombs

it keeps them restless, this time, behind the camera.
only the pictures stay calm. behind each beat, behind
each grimacing, pretend-to-be-bothered worker mugging
a hello for hometown heroes, is the entire driving force
of a million dancing kids pockmarking

something special. of whole rainy puddle rituals
disrupting the epiphanies, destroying half of Europe
before the camera can even be clicked off, carried
on ships to America, where the grim spectacle starts again.

yeah, if I had to do it over, I guess I would. Its hard to know,
though.
in muted greys and bricks, the echoes bounce off the walls,
one more busted jaw youngster looking for a party, for someone
with a large coat and commanding voice
to tell them which dance is next.
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the prompts were to write about the black death. to write about the nu romantics. i made it into a sandwich. edits to follow.