The slow death of Billy Dancing

Hooked to the pulses,
Billy felt it too,
Right as rain, he showed it
To the margin of fainter faces.
With unfailing feet he
Wooed and married flight.
All by his-self, don't laugh,
It's Billy Dancing.

Sweat, light as watch-oil,
Welling beneath the hairline,
Arcing over temples,
Swims towards the bass-line.
To see it was the breath of imagination,
A volume of desires in
Animate sweeping curves.
Its what he thinks, don't laugh,
It's Billy Dancing.

And for one fine moment
He was on the edge,
The final limit, and more than
Ever now
It was a slow death,
When age and appearance
Would determine how they thought
And wait for him to stumble
As a drunk.

Don't be fooled, here under the cutical moon,
Drowsey as an autumn wasp,
Twenty and eleven years has
Made a bigger soul.
Raw and unwitting it should never end.
He flirts as well as the young
Girl with him,
Still in him-self, don't laugh,
It's Billy Dancing.

c87