Sunday, March 26, 2006

A Gothic Observatory

Nocturne - Jean Miro

The night has a politics unrestrained, rawer, unneedful of the niceties of linguistics.
Night people show the true face of humanity, unsugared by charitable donations or moral issues, all faces stripped by the piranhas of alcohol and narcotic to the bare bones of our genetics, to float pale and gap-toothed grinning on the surface of night’s desires.
I love this taste of unseen forces doing their Darwinian duty, Testosterone fuelled male manoeuvring for easily charmed shallow female beauty – but I am only an observer; a selective agent here. I leave the herd to their hopeless dance toward a joyless future; they hold no attraction for me.
What I require is stimulation of a more specialised nature; something a bit more esoteric, intangible. Something that tingles on the edges of the synapses beyond the earth-bound senses of taste, touch and smell – although I will admit to a taste for blood.
I feel ol' Red twitch in discomfort; self righteous little man that he is – takes no responsibility for the true nature of things, but nevertheless with steaming showers in morning’s red remorse, will wash away the forensic evidence of our night’s activities. Likes to see himself as the innocent bystander does Red, but I know better.
It’s a rare and visceral poetry – to read the future in the inner workings of the human body – beyond surgery; cosmetic or otherwise – a place where only the strong will hold your stare; only the committed will take those extra steps.
I move through the Euclidian streets that mark Eden’s lower belly, leaving behind the sports bars where I took him to tease, past the nightclubs that cater for amphetamine and psychedelic hedonism, past the specialist joints where you wouldn’t believe the kind of shit people are into, past down-and-out end-of-the-line bars where even the hookers won’t park their asses, away from all of this to the singles bars where it all makes perfect sense.
It’s a delicious dance with the inevitable, diamond faceted intersecting planes of causality, courting the end of the world with a mind too fragile to take it. Melancholy has a new depth where only chemicals can deal a hand strong enough to equal the flush of sacred hearts, spades and the inevitable clubs.
My body is alive; I can see the muscles on my gut in my mind’s eye – defined and sexy – ready for anything; for the night’s unknowing; for pleasure wet and red.
Somewhere out here in Eden’s loving night there is a woman who wants me for her special moment; that moment when she can give it all, open that part of herself so neglected by others; someone who is ready for the sharing of intimate fluid. Mars reaches the parts that other brands dare not. I love this anticipation; this knowing; I feel my desire, as yet un-engorged, hanging in wait, its weight a pleasure in itself. Self-awareness is a beautiful thing when unencumbered by the conventions of sin and guilt; unanswerable to the petty rules enforced to keep the herd inside the paddock.
They say that power corrupts; bullshit, power is a means by which to satisfy the most primal of human desires: the desire for ownership.
And speaking of ownership; I spot Red’s car up ahead, the parking meter dutifully still showing 5 minutes even though it’s after hours.
You can tell a lot about a man by his choice of car. Whatever possessed him to by this clumsy family car with its cup holders and automatic transmission and white paint job?

Excerpt from 'Markov Chain'

1 comment:

elasticwaistbandlady said...

The nocturnal hours for me represent nothing but working like a donkey to keep my family fed. Crap, at least someone is swapping intimate fluids and living la vida loca.

Now, I feel despondent.