It was a difficult tempest, forging through the marketplace on a Saturday afternoon. I witnessed the media perceptions of wealth and harems enough as I melted chocolate with a hot spoon (setting fire to metal with my burning hands), stirring and watching the medical history of cancer erupt on the front page of the press, newsstands and reverends pleading with the nations for opposite virtues- more or less a balance in the tide of fashion and flavor for a higher power.
Immortally inclined, he counts his change and wonders if he can splurge on a cup of coffee. Times are hard even for the nectar queens with their high top sneakers, restaurant gods and witnesses of first-degree murder- all hyperbole and stark raving electrolytes have a wish to yell out their grievances towards a harbor state that couldn’t see the sun save for looking down at the pavement to check and make sure his shadow is still there.
Luckily I kept extra creep shadows in a skull and crossbones bag that I bought for seven dollars at I shop I know down in the crop circle district, next to the pyramid building of the Illumanati that stands in the dirt from which I grew. The mythos of the underworld was cathartic: all dimensions seemed faint, and the nerves underneath this soft skin are undressed to show the perceptions that I dance from one drizzle day to another.
Swept over the bridge of a fortnight ago, I carry the stream down with me to our resting place- a dam set to the tune of the Moulin Rouge with all her outfits set out on the bed in her dressing room, lipstick and stockings already adorned she dances in front of the mirror while no one watches but her window and the fan that easily ruffles her undergarments.
Seizures and architecture angels gather in the wings on the theatre, each rehearsing in their final minutes before performance: those vicious steps that aggravate the senses of all in the audience, caution tape to be set down later- we receive note from the piano player that beginnings are around us and through us, five minutes till curtain up. The show being ready for us to take it off its training wheels, out of her braces and backpacks of Lisa Frank, and this middle school fever and fraternity that was found so many times in the empty aisles of this mechanical theatre during tech week.
She grows quickly and now the entrances and exits of this veiled subtle playing ground open up to us as if paranoia was expected, prophecy was indignant and said whatever the hell it needed to, dance was deviant, and this was a blood-soaked exorcism to be sure. Two minutes till curtain, six cups of coffee, at least a pack of cigarettes before the performance is done and the sentiments of the puppets’ strings are draining through the spaces in the heads of this clapping recession.
Dance was a rising of the serpent spirit, a channel of literal embodiment of music and persona in front of an audience. I take the time to form an existential philosophy around these movements of vengeful anarchy. Shake the tyranny out of your bone marrow, once and for all (until tomorrow). I sat in my white wooden chair that my mom and I painted when I was a kid, and I wait for these masters of disillusion, these fortresses of purgatory to share their rhymes with me and together, music and feet stomping out the silence.
I swoop and shift, bird fingers and feathers melting away off my shoulders. I will change for you and in front of you, every artist giving and taming their respective closets. Shall I strive to meld these steps of efficacy and tolerance? I like to listen to all kinds of music as I choreograph. Pacing to the beats that change with the tick of the clock, die on the dance floor and lift up from the water that surprises us, drowns us, and wakes us up once again in the morning.
I was instructed by my body, shaking tumult and a sexual pleasure that can be heard for miles. Requiems and inscriptions on the body, I formed movements blind and to myself make the music and the cause behind clear, efforts and catastrophes bind us to the physical world where even the most dedicated of angels dare not trespass into this abyss madness and scrutiny.
Legs wrapped around chairs and bible thumping hands take me to new avenues of expression and my thoughts on the economy, the music industry, and the persistent drumming that throbs my body’s arousal to speak through the storm, to dance through the tumult, to look you in the eye and swear that I will entertain you.
I sit and see flashes, visions of our music artists and their yearnings. I carry out their theatricals and voice chords channeled through my shoulders and arms, spreading through my torso and down through my thighs to my bare feet. Ecstasy in furrowed moments, space slows down and gets a ticket to see this audience applaud a haunted divergence from the mundane psychoses that wait to take us back home after our evening dancing with the devil on a g string.