Galaxy

Rather than a universe to swallow down my throat in another threat of conformity, that may, or may not be hollow in its eventuality, it's just a bar…

Violet neon sign huffing the haunted ghost-breaths of the mosquito's which flutter, and fall opaquely, ready for death; your blood sloshes in their veins. They land on you, like idols: teeth making love to hot flesh while you tangled a cigarette from your pack, moved it to your mouth, sucked in its dry whispers

while I pretended to pay you no mind, yet

the band sucks; a middle aged wannabe stuffed with lackadaisical lyrics, moving the audience to tiny cheers in between songs by introducing the caged go-go dancers by name: Let's hear it for Amber! And she waves, her white bellbottoms checkered down her leg like a quilt.

Some of the men clap,

a waitress brings me a fruity drink devoid of flavor, while a girl, in a sleeveless shirt meanders to the dance floor (she's the only one, and she works it, with a come-hither mockery, that no one is game for.)

I like to sit in dark corners, because I blend with the carpet, the stage colors, the banal wallpaper kitten heeled - no pictures, just black - no frames to find my fragments in. Just the lazy love-sick illness we all feel while we're here. Quick to forget that planetary alignment has more to do with fate, then one hit wonders.