I am very conflicted about the idea of ‘clubbing’. Although sometimes I love to lose myself and suddenly wonder how it got to be 6am, where all my money went and where all this pork came from, I dislike the snobbish assumption that ‘clubbing’ is an inherently ‘cooler’ way of spending ones time than its more staid alternatives. I find it strange that the term ‘going out’ can be used as a synecdoche (oh how rarely I get to use that word) for clubbing. As though it is the only valid way of leaving the house. People say “go on, you’ve got to come out, it’s the weekend!” “don’t be boring, come out!” etc and sometimes I just want to read a book or watch crappy TV. I wrote this poem when I was in a particularly grumpy mood about all of the above.
Let’s all go stand in dark rooms
with the music blaring loud.
We can pretend that we’d still like ourselves
with the lights up.
With the sound down.
Let’s smile for photos
and drown our sorrows
and fuck tomorrows
and forget ourselves
for one more night.
Let’s stand near to the speakers;
let the beat run through our fingers
’til it fills our veins and strangles
out our thudding hearts beneath.
But they’ll carry on without us.
They’ll wait, but not forever:
for us to stop,
and hear them:
if we ever leave the club.