Secret beacons
Like coffee drips.
Takes me back, back to 1998—the worst year since 1989. Or was it 1990? Callooh, callay, come run away …
… to 1998, which was the best year since 1993. Or was it 1994? Another door to another day …
… in 1998—the worst yet until 2015. Or was it '16? Or '17? Goddess, '17 was horrible. It was '17. Seventeen divided by 4, which was more? Useless. All the useless chatter, broken dishes on the floor. And the pitter-patter of mistakes made once more …
… but come away with me, to the night before, nights before, in good old 1998, those that were great and not before the rancid rain downpour that was to come under the new '99 sun …
… to a small, dark apartment, on the Diamond, in the desert … no, wait … not then, not there. Not yet …
… okay then, to the place where it all go boom boom, and the black light and the mushrooms, the mush-room, a mattress on a floor but clean. It's a scene that entices your appetite and proves you to be more than a little at ease with the figures of fright-night. It's a gas, as they say, yea? And therein lies the rub, the rubbing, of bodies together, two to three, and each will see the light, black not blue but bluish hue, and hear the siren sing her beautiful tale, of tails and water and sails. Daughters of darkness lie replete, and in each other's arms we sweat sweetly, a catapult of loneliness made whole, kneaded into something needed, something necessary, to bring the dark night to a close.
You wake with a headache, and it all fades away, giving way to the coming day.
