By Douglas Evan Weiss
My punk sweetheart has no time for these radical diatribes on a warm Sunday night stuffed inside a metal box and pushed up against a swelling ocean.
Beach side apocalypse and rude boy elegy launched into the night between abstract canvas and wife number three; the tree tops are perfect and the coffee is delicious.
Black bean heart throbs and cracked mirror beauties pushed up against an 8 track DJ booth just a short walk from east Essex street; those Halloween photos in a dark stairwell with the retro hoodies and the curated hard smiles and the aging street side poses all glorious while the doorman works the flash and recites names off a short guest list for those awaiting the moaning disco lights and molecular exits.
A grim elegy for daughters and lovers courting a rare disaster while we drive down Broadway past the sleepy Ed Sullivan theater shouting ‘dear show business you’re so busy while we stand outside in the lonely cold.’
Is this simply the last stop before vertigo? Is this the correct line for Taylor tickets? Can we get all of this sushi to go, please?
Hermanos Gutierrez on the radio, alone in bed on a Sunday night dripping with middle aged revolution, always best to weep in the car. These finely targeted drone smiles push against our disastrous divide – my pretty AI nightmare selling wax to keep the heat on. He has it so good……. Los Ángeles cafes and sunshine – these glowing algorithms are well curated lies heavily salted and delicious. My punk sweetheart with the good hair we have nothing left so just watch the nuclear device and collect bread. Ask politely for honey and be kind while awaiting further orders.
My darling punk sweetheart kill me now on the corner of 4th street; kill me now before the marching legions of winter arrives and the summer is forgotten. Kill me now before I have to pay for all of this. Kill me now before she starts asking questions. Kill me now before I go back to Bali. Kill me now in the lonely shadows of City Hall and Madison Square Garden. Kill me now so we never have another erection again. Kill me now before this messy November election. Kill me know before the rivers dry up and the ice melts and the oceans bubble and the sands turn to a grey stone and the moon winks back and the palm trees wave goodbye and the bridges get built and roads fixed and the bank accounts fabulously emptied.
Perpetually adrift on this tropical pergatory with crumbling homes and celibate love letters; the weaving coastline is ripe with a haunting bacteria. This collapse is mildly romantic and all these cars are parked illegally.
