Beat

Posted: January 20, 2012 in Monologues

It’s the beat. The rhythm. The pulsing. It throbs. It gets in your head. Makes your skull vibrate. Makes your brain wanna squeeze through your eye sockets and join the party.  The sweat. The heat. Makes me horny as a dog with two dicks; makes me wanna fuck. The grinding. The glistening skin. Makes me wanna lick it. Taste it. Taste you. Lick you. Consume you. Drink you up. Every drop. Inhale you. Breathe you in. Suck you into me.  You know what? At this precise moment, I love you.  Let’s make our own music, yeah? Get lost in the pounding. Lay your melody over me and we’ll make a masterpiece. 

You know, they said I wouldn’t make it, yet here I am. Dancing. Laughing. Living.  Seven months lying flat on a bed, metal twisting out of my bones.  Seven fucking months. A bed bath was the closest thing I got to a wank.  I was reborn in that bed and this, this beat, this is my first gasp of air. Oh yeah, Mummy, this is the start, the beginning. There’s no going back now the music’s started. This is it. Once upon a time, they said I wouldn’t be here.  But I am. Fucking look at me now. I’m here. Dancing.  If you’re not dancing, you’re dying.

Can you feel it? The boom, boom, doof, doof of that bass throbbing in your veins. Filling your arteries with the sound…the sound…the sound of the past, the future, the here and fucking now. I want to bottle this moment. Bottle it and sniff it, take it in, perk me up like poppers. The heat rippling through me, tickling, trickling through my veins, over my flesh, making my brain pulse. Goose bumps, bubbling across my skin, keeping my hairs on end. Makes me feel alive.

Christ, that sound…that sound…that sound of the over, under, bend-over-ground, sound as a pound of flesh. Bodies mesh. A full on sesh that I never want to end. Not now. Not ever. Never. Everlong the throng of the crowd dancing to the beat. Never forget that we were here. Cut it with a knife, the buzzing electric. I’m gonna skip the light fantastic and click my heels three times. I heard the death bell chime, but I fucking ignored it. I’ve soared through the sky and dropped through the black into forever. But that was then. This is now. I wanna be in this moment until the light fades, the tunnel darkens. Because this is the dawn, the scorn, the fucking horn and porn of life. Right here, playing out in the beat. I’ve got a stiffy. I’ve got a stalk on the size of the empire state. I can’t wait; I need to fuck. I need to fuck to keep this rhythm going. If I’m not dancing, I’m dying. Please. Just one more time. I’m not high, I’m just alive. Still. Baboom, baboom, baboom; the beat, it pumps to the rhythm of my heart.  I can’t stop now. I’ve danced so much I can’t feel my legs.  Listened so long, I can’t hear your words. But I know you’re there. Watching. Don’t pull the plug or flick the switch, keep my beat going. Because you know what? At this precise moment, I fucking love you.

Beat was produced as part of ‘Ave It at the Old Vic Tunnels in July 2011, and published in Hearing Voices (October 2011) 

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Comments
  1. Mellissa Flowerdew-Clarke has the uncanny creative ability to transport you into the scene of the story she describes. Through the description and vocabulary used you can literally feel your senses tingling, as if you are perceiving the world through the character’s eyes. In tandem with this, her use of emotive language allows the reader to empathize with the character entirely and crave the sensations being experienced for themselves. In closing, I will say that I had intended to stay in this evening, but life’s for living and if you’re not dancing, you’re dying!

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