Mirrorball

Shadows drink from the flash of a strobe
pulsing with oilslick swirls flashing in
freezeframe. Rainbow ghosts. The Mad Hatter nods, tipping his tophat:
hydrangea cakes with moon jam tonight,
and a drop of bleeding love in my tea.
I noticed through the iridescence that
radioactive looks smashing on you,
at least in the blacklight. It tastes of
rapture and tinfoil and colorgasm,
like bloodsugar raining down on the tiles;
the kind that moves me to crying opals
or screaming disco canon, only
when the dancefloor isn't looking.