Disco – a romance – two incompatibles hook up –
chicken-scratch guitar does the hustle
with some strings. The move into a big
shiny synthesizer, everyone says
it won’t last. It won’t still: they wouldn’t trade those spinning bits
of mirror
for a whole archive of ballads. Their quavered love
child, Disco, lives the best kind of life,
dizzy, brief, intense,
closet adrip with fresh dry-cleaned white three-piece suits.

Love to love you Baby. She twirls Donna Summer’s vinyl
techno-trek
to a fifteen-minute orgasm (she can only
imagine). The disco-haters heap scorn
‘look, if it takes a whole team of engineers
just to fake it,
something’s wrong’.

They’ve missed the point. The point
being the sex inside the engine
sounds real.

The new electronic drums
tickle her. A machine beating a drum, a monkey typing
Shakespeare, why not?
Why not step inside the latest sonic appliance?
She’s long longed to be peerless as an electric piano
and all you disco-haters: about Donna
doing her thing – you listened, didn’t you,
you did listen
right to the end.

She listened, too.