Clubs in August

They were broken kisses
that got smeared
across my face.
That drunken daze
where my luck turns
and melts into
all the sweat and spilt drinks
that stick
to the floor.
It’s a movement
when we all stop placements,
just being alone
among others,
taking the shared looks
towards all the perfect bodies
that have kept themselves
for this one moment
where everyone
get’s to see them wet.

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About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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