the dj beckons them to the club
holla’–it’s time to spin, bust your move
to the lawn, to the chamber, arms in the air
everyone: “forty-five! forty-five!”
remix…errrr, skidding a new track
deeper into the moment
feeling the bass
under lyrics of a lie
the dj is a master puppeteer
narci-sizing new moves on the dance floor
moshpit sashays towards the privileged, the popular
insurecting the dancers, a storm of Qed
follows the dj in a shameful
dystopian democracy disco