Bring Me the Head of the Disco King

I remember being brown, wrapped in black suede. I walked into the lights and the bass making my skin breathe heavily, like the walls that held it back from spreading out into the streets. I’ve been turning from white, to red, to blue and green. A subtle purple-pink seems to settle heavy in to the thick atmosphere, more often than the other colours.

I always end up at least once a week in this light and sound, somehow or the other.

It draws me into a daze, pleasantly stuffed with bodies gyrating against each other. Some look ridiculous, some look incredulous. No one looks out of place though. Bless their souls. They’re all moving to the same tune. Their limbs and torso move, in similar patterns to each other. Together they move like one big organism, in one big orgasm.

Everyone’s on track with every track, and with every move for every track, that the scene seems choreographed. But how much fun is a choreographed orgasm? Perhaps just as much fun as porn is to a virgin.

The synchronization of bodies and movement used to appeal to me, not so long ago. I’d moan and groan to feed the enthusiasm of the creature we would all impersonate, and indulge in the single being we would all become. It used to be ‘us’, ‘we’. Now it’s a ‘me’.

Things have changed, clearly. Colours are more prominent and their faces spin through my mind, disco-balling on chameleon bodies. I can’t relate to them and I slowly begin to move less and less, unable to have the want to make the slightest attempt to be in sync with the rest of them.

I need some space.

Nothing’s wrong with me. I think. Change is movement, and we all need to move at some point. Right?

I step out of the colours into a dark corridor lit by a stream of fluorescent pink lights all along bottom-left of the wall. I’ve been here a thousand times before. My eyes miss the signs that indicate where the male and female toilets are located. My body is my guide. I’m sure it smelled better before I heard the guttural sound of some one puking.

I don’t look. I never turn to look. In that mirror I’m brown again in the white light of the toilet. The water exits the tap, steady and my hand awakens to the sense of something more natural than anything around here. I drip droplets onto my neck, swipe it clean, and let it re-awaken the tip of my spine.

Heading back almost blindly, I see that they have taken full form. It’s not a dance-floor anymore, but a playground for chameleons.  Their tales twist into each other, their big eyes move to follow their ever changing personalities.

Some big eyes scan me. Some beg permission to approach me. I avert my gaze fully aware that I am just as illuminated as they are multi-coloured, ever-changing in spite of my sate of mind.

Then I see him.

De-illuminated, he sways. An alien on this ground. The permanent hunch of his shoulders lead down to lanky arms that try to meet each other and then turn away following the tracks of his mind as it seems to sync with the music in its own way. As though it decodes the vibrations or the reverberations of this cage in a language spoken by no one but him.

And my shoulders go slack.  My eyes track his movement, track his eyes.

And then I am caught. He stares through me and I come to realize that I speak his language. De-illumination engulfs me. My body leaves the edge of the pink corridor, new movement takes over.

He’s moving, I’m moving. They’re changing, we’re colourless. We writhe, we shift, we laugh, we cry. We speak, wordless, and we touch each other, senseless. A crown bejewels his head and he wears it, proud, regal and beautiful. When he draws me in further, I’m aware, I’m his queen. Our skins are not boundaries anymore and we are fluid drifting through each other.

I close my eyes for a second to let it sink in. Elevation kicks in and I’m suspended in motion, with the most familiar stranger I have ever encountered.

Cold nausea kicks in, suddenly,  and pries my eyes open.

What’s this?

The lights, they dye every inch of me. I see all the pictures of the old. Bulbous eyes, reptile bodies, everything and everyone in their camouflage.

Re-illuminated, I turn around and only see the door at the entrance swing. The caliph of my change, gone.

I’m standing, beyond the edge. Changed beyond my limits. And I thought I would have found more unimaginable chaos. But the colours, the light and darkness, the faces that spin, the bodies that move, they all phase out. He was the last straw, and beyond the edge, I find calm.

I approach the door that swings less and less and move on, renewed.

This short story’s title was taken  from “Bring me the Disco King,” by David Bowie feat. Maynard James Keenan.


2 thoughts on “Bring Me the Head of the Disco King

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s