The space between beats.
The suspension of a heart’s pause.
For a quarter second I am dead.
No blood moves and the feedback draws in on itself.
These years are apocrypha.
Supplementary and filled with false prophets.
The suspension backs a dreamy 80’s shoegaze-inspired club in half light.
Shadows hollowing us, softening the years on our faces.
In this basement, we are all Robert Mapplethorpe prints.
I am aware of the pastiche.
All the beautiful bodies that are not mine glorying in themselves, making psalms,
reaching back to tug at Whitman’s beard.
It’s tinny and the club kids of past decades crush pills, do lines on some unseen surface.
A half speed shot pulling back on a dolly revealing perfectly undulating bodies suspended
between thick bass licks and distortion.
The stylized shit stupid children love, all gloss and mood.
Some Finance Bro’s hard dick dream of himself on a Saturday night.