This Saturday Night City - a poem

Pink piles of jumble
Half finished things
Came home from the making of clothes
And all I want to do now
Is sit here and sing

I'm going out to dance tonight
With a random collection of souls
And I'm going to try not to drink a drop of booze-
Just get high from the shaking of my bits and my bones

If only I didn't care what they thought
I'd run around the club like a child
Wearing pyjamas and wellies and glitter
Being young and old and me and free and wild

But I know I'll have a couple, or more
And try to mould in to the norm
Talking and smiling the empty chat,
And avoiding depth. To conform.

We won't dance until we're pissed enough
And in case you should think we're genuinely
Letting ourselves go,
Risking the freedom-flow of authenticity,
We'll take the piss out of our own dance
Or pretend we're really cool and edgy on the floor
Cos, "look at me, I'm fuckin' 'it'"
"I'm the life and soul"
"I'm hardcore!"

The same pattern repeated throughout the whole city
Total drought of authenticity
Across the pubs and clubs and bars
This UK Saturday night

And though it bores me to crying sometimes,
Alone in the toilets,
I find myself conforming still-
Like an inwardly terrified teen
Norming myself in,
Squashing my truth out
'Til we're well and truly out-of-it!

So that then, at least,
I've got my excuse
For being wild and free
(And a little bit like
The real me)

Through the rowdy Wayhay! crowds,
I overhear a nearby bloke, who says it all:

"It's not really me mate, it's not me,
It's only the booze,

You see?"