The lead singer tans in our gaze.
Turning occasionally for an even mahogany,
he flirts, in a spandex mock pilot's uniform,
rather than, say, a bikini.
We keep him warmer than the spotlights.
He barely breaks a sweat, though,
electro-posturing, a digit at a time,
while a gobo projection of his own face,
angular, eyelinered, onto the back wall
causes several girls and a newly confused boy
to fall into St John's ambulance arms.
When they come round, they'll buck water
and beg to be allowed back
into the corset of fans
that whittled their waist
to a svelte seven inches before.
About the same size
as that of the glittering ghoul
yawning, suggesting into the mic that we