See the Chevy approach, spewing toxic clouds of carbon cum-hum. Check the girl behind the wheel; one big red love-hive of hair-buzz.
The doorman of the Club Alfalfa steps aside at a show of hands and a password.
‘You dancin’ tonight?’ he asks.
Inside an old squaw Indian chops lines of powdered amber. Tasselled pipes filled. Smoke of nectar-scented heaven. Eyes pied with peaceful shine.
Tap-shoe footsteps of red fill the dance floor with scents of flowers. She approaches the DJ. He’s carved in ink, his head a cascade of vinyl black locks.
‘You got anything I can dance to?’ she asks.
‘A bag of bust love tunes girl. Wanna tarnish your soul?’
‘Just play em needle boy.’
The crowd parts, she takes to the dance floor in ocean-grace. Hands wave the bolero. Fingers buzz, loaded with bullets of melody.
She places a bud on the floor. It trembles as petals unfold, filled with bass fever. A soft light emanates, enclosing her in a golden aura.
In clean grooves of honey, straight from the hive, she moves. It’s a gentle dance, her lips breathe clouds of moon-bound amber haze.
Deep in the mix of golden vapour, a flicker at the edges of the real. In sparkles, her ghost leaves her body, mingles with the crowd, caresses their souls with ancient knowledge.
It’s a heavenly head-fuck as all begin to move as one, pulsing with a single love-laced heartbeat, their minds filled with each other’s memories, emotions and desires. And at the centre of it all, she’s laughing, the deepest secrets of the ghost dance shared by all.
Making a present of her past, taking fancy in the future, she’s Daisy Smooth, dancing star-sticky under umbrellas of bass.