The Antisocial Libertine
Flickering lights, pounding beat, drums and bass, I feel it in my seat,
my groin, driving me, lifting me, even as it pins me down. I cannot stay
away, drawn to the perfume, the makeup, the liquor, to the place where time
doesn’t matter, where tomorrow is theoretical, possibilities endless.
Mint-masked cigarette breath hot on my neck, hands on my chest, stiffly sprayed hair in
my face, and always the perfume, inflating me like helium in a balloon until I’m flying
above the room, looking down on the scene where alcohol-fueled men lurch in pursuit
of sultry, intoxicated women balanced precariously on impossibly high-heeled shoes:
a poorly choreographed ballet set to a hip-hop beat.
I circle, seeing all:
sharp heartache, dull longings, lustful desires, naked greed,
a bizarre bazaar selling only illusion, a momentary dream inspired
by a glance or a caress, no matter how mechanical or mercenary.
Outside, the world goes on as always, spinning its way toward eternity.
Inside, the lights, the music, the flesh and sweat, the whiskey and beer
and Tequila swirl and flow and churn my brain, ignite my desire,
while the money flies out of my pockets, almost unnoticed.
There is no heaven for me, no kingdom come, and no hell. Only fragments of time which
transcend the mundane, perhaps for an hour, perhaps only as long as a single indrawn breath. Always, though, there is a price, for the faithful one and for the one who strays,
for the follower of the path laid down by the authorities, and for the one who takes
a different route. The high road and the low road both charge a toll and you will pay.
I know what price I pay, have paid, will pay. I know, and I pay, and I
return to the dance, to the lights and the drums, to the perfume and
glitter and alcohol, with open eyes and a heart like a grail waiting
to be filled with the blood of a savior, if only there were one.
If only he lived and breathed among us, walked our streets, drank our water,
water and wine and whiskey and beer, and loved and lusted and danced and sweat.
If only he could see with human eyes, bloodshot eyes, eyes full of tears, eyes
which can leer even as they behold the beauty which lies within them.
Brian Mosher writes poetry and fiction from his home in Mansfield, MA. His work has appeared in The Write Launch, Lily Poetry Review, Literary Underground, Nixes Mate, Anomaly Poetry, eMerge, Esoterica, and others. His unpublished short story collection was shortlisted for the Unleash Press 2025 Book Prize, and his short story “Fragments” was a winner of the Nikki Hanna Literary Challenge. He has self-published 3 books, all available through Amazon. Mosher’s most recent collection, A Muster of Melodious Musings (2025) is published by Metaphysical Fox Press. His poetry chapbook Relict is slated for January 2026 release from Finishing Line Press.
