I am rarely sorry

psyche

Camera flashes in the sky; zzt-pzzt!

Sparking throughout the undercity: the gods are searching for midnight. Atrak on the girl’s synapses, I hold her medial geniculate nucleus in my lap & pretend to know all the wiring, grinding along, & every few minutes we are swept in a film of strobing lights. No thunder, but maybe it’s just that her dorsal subnucleus is bent.

Albrecht is drunken, gushing, spilling vodka all over me. Stems wrapped up in faux leather. She’s all blackshine, with dark roots & platinum glow. We touch foreheads under a low wet ceiling, Oh olden-home, writhing bodies, intoxicants slipping through our glands & we laugh laugh laugh like unhinged schizos.

Inside the club there are hipster, toothpick posers everywhere. Albrecht is vunder-eyed. {“tackies n bitches”, she mutters selfishly, selflessly}. But her gaze, so deliberate, stares purposely against every face. They looks at us & we are cheshire, sliding deeper into the club.

Hordes of people are here to dance, but most of them to drink their twinselves to singularity, catch a tiger toe, taste manic thrusting. Albrecht adores sneering at them. Curl her lip, raise that brow, dip her tongue in verbal slander-slaughter. Sometimes the tackies get bold & try to dance with us. When that happens, we step on their faces with the heels of our sueded spike-heeled stilettos, & they go away bruising. Goodbye, louse. So we slid, & danced, spinning their futures around.

Some of our fanciful cherries are there, so tasteful, moving like comets, sparkling. We love to watch them shining. Later we look in the mirror & notice the ruin of duality shrinking in on itself to the whole again. Sigh. Morning.

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