In the club, darkness except for the light; in the light, 

madness that was ready to write and ride him 

like a drink. Pink madness, twink madness, the gay 

gag and his gang of shredded ganglia. Sharp disorganization 

which he would only call confusion, never delusion, never 

illness or unwellness or broken stillness of brain and body, 

cortex and corpus, striatum and stomach where fluid muscles 

curdle the order and spoon. He considers 

what disorder is abnormal; 

no abs, no norms, just serum and weight, medicine and accumulation, 

nucleus accumbens nuked by dope. How dope, how depressing,

and still he blanked, drank to be normal, to be nominally attractive 

to the track of numinal boys in the back room, flash room, secret 

swallowing for suckers who don’t have fucked synapses. He danced 

like dopamine jumping gaps, saw like seeing wasn't gashed, 

gyri gyrating until the gaps filled, the still spill between him 

and another boy, his lover choice, salience of sexual stimuli 

like hot butterflies— 

Where was he? The dance club 

heat, neural bleed, madness feeding his dance like vodka, comma, 

delusion, danger, dissolving doorknobs from the dripping disorder 

running down his neck to his hands. Check his wet pants for others’ hands, 

no funny dance, no idea of order for a mad young man— just force pill, 

drink spill, foreskin, door unhinged. From a fetus his fall foreshadowed, 

four shadows dancing on the walls and he names them each: 

Boy, Heaven, Penis, Kevin. 

Kevin, what the hell— you perfect homosexual, 

blessed neurotypical, white, thin, nights of gin that don’t end 

in pins injected into the spine; once a month and all the visions

will cease to be visions, disorder, distance, disorganized 

speech, the fourth primary criterion for derangement, 

among delusion and disaster, a small dark boy 

spearing doves into his ark like darkness.