Blue Light Discos don’t really have blue lights

nor many hometown cops dressed as cops.

Not here in the brick veneer of winter

in a Masonic Lodge where the hall is choofing

with Lynx Voodoo and Impulse Free Spirit.

On a stage, where no play has played

since the 60s, Poss and Morsey DJ a set

on their tip yard turntables. Cougar-

Mellencamp, Ace of Base and Roxette roll on

and because it’s the country there is always

the Nutbush. Against a sea of teen sebum I walk

to the wall for anything but those moves –

an Egyptian cross-turn pivot and clap

a kick into space. When a hand reaches into mine

it fast becomes strip lighting and stairwell

the yeast breath of Bacardi. Tongues rasp as that ditty

about Highway Number 19 thunders into our echo.

And that song’s unknowable Americanness makes

the cold chill through my coolest Hypercolour shirt –

no sign of heat when ready strangers kiss.  
This poem appears in Morley’s recent collection You Do You, out through Upswell Publishing.