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Love is boring and passé, all that old baggage, the bloody bric-a-brac, the bad, the gothic, retrograde, obscurantist hum and drum of it needs to be swept away. So, night after night, we sit in the dark of the Roxy beside grandmothers with their shanks tied up in the tourniquets of rolled stockings and open ourselves, like earth to rain, to the blue fire of the movie screen where love surrenders suddenly to gangsters and their cuties.
The lights of the world were going out & I was going out with them. So I said to hell with it and walked on full of hellfire & fluoridated water— a missile of dumb confidence under the sun’s sadistic vespers. Dark fell fast. Birds gave way to bats. The moon’s black yoke above a big bit of nothing. No light, just implacable night. Soon enough, I found myself in a fix: quicksand cooled my Quixoticism. I sank. Not fast but subtle—a drowsy shimmy into an underworld of allomorphic rock.
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