The night I was dressed as an art dealer, buying snacks in London before the second sex party of the night.

"Fluorescent"

Ten minutes of reality in a petrol station shop

Whilst deciding on chocolate, a Wispa Gold perhaps

Dressed in thirties foppery. Top hat and ivory tie

Sock suspenders and tails. Beside a friend in her veil

A shredded wedding dress still warmed from the art-themed orgy

Suffused by the weighted scent of an ecstatic languorous multitude

Where I bought heaving sculptures of tangled limbs, with monopoly money

Each to pay the bearer the sum of my mobile number

Except ceci n'est pas une dungeon. The CCTV monitor above the counter flickers

A distorted waveform, like the overheard trills of bliss

The cashier pays no second glance as we step out into the night

Towards a bacchanalia afterparty in the glowing godless hours

To gallivant. Fucktabulously.