A sigh was all I had to give as dawn made its entrance, the grim curtain of sandman skies rising to reveal the new voodoo fuchsia horizon that would guide me home. Once the witching hours had bewitched you, the edge of the city is the edge of the world, and mausoleum silence lay like ash upon its vast pastures of folly and felonies. This is the comedown. This is when we calm down. A plume of hash smoke at my lips like Hiroshima’s wake as the sun dug itself from its Eastern grave.
Hours before, that night before, I got off above a police action. The girl was named after a Smiths song and wore a cheongsam dress; and we were guests in hostile heavens. Vermillion times a million, it looked like she was dressed in blood. The beautiful butcher of our better angels. And carnivorous me, fresh to death and ravenous for angel meat. Zoloft-lofty and raw with wine at a rooftop fuck spot. She pulled me to the tar with rapist arms as the boulevard beneath us swelled with revolutionaries. Rioters too, and predatory pigs at every end slowly lowering helmet visors to hide their salacious grins.
She bit into my ear and said something of love, and then lust’s last thrusts left us like ragdolls bent over the ledge, woven and prone and desperate for breath. I slungshot the moon with my defiled prophylactic, hoping upon hope that it would land on a cop. Or a protestor. Let them have the children that I’ll never want.
A fire escape artist, I came and went. Descended amidst pigs who couldn’t have cared less. There were enough skulls to crack in the world. So, whirlybird stoned and smelling of sex, I waded my way through the melee and into a place of great fluorescent despair, where pocket-bottom loose change bought me a donut dinner. The girl I had just fucked liked to call me her stray. Charm and cheekbones are all I have to give. No gold to dig, girl. Only graves.