If only She loved me.
Her shawl is a soft mist that streamlines her forms, for earrings the small yellow-ochre globes of the riverfront streetlamps, her glances take you by surprise like penetrating breezes at the turn of lost alleys, and her voice is mysterious and crooked like the vapors of a nocturnal psychedelia that deform the names of things.
Even just for one evening. I wish the city loved me.
She takes you by the arm: resolute and without regrets. An acid-rock hike through the streets, the furious echo of footsteps on the porphyry, and the relentless rhythm of a drum'n'bass heart shaken by violent Sonic Youth shivers.
A woman's glossolalia gushes in the subtext of the sound, a Fata Morgana that bridges the gap between Fraser and Sandoval and unrolls dark purple garlands from the bell towers wrapped in mist.
But the city suddenly stops. Suspended, dreamy, it squints, thinking of lost loves, and the revealing wrinkles running along the walls float in irregular electric reverberations.
A gloomy piano threnody sinks into a dull, cavernous, almost Teutonic noise in which the raven tresses of Mazzy Star are tousled by furious Faustian caresses.
She is capricious, elusive, her hips sway on the ebb and flow of a sophisticated high-class night club trumpet. A bizarre crossroads between icy dream-pop and seductive jazz, She makes one lose their mind.
And finally, Fata Morgana takes courage and strings the words together like amethyst stones. She opens our hearts. But what a moment before was a moonlit confession, transforms in the blink of an eye into an outburst worthy of the rawest Bardo Pond. She offers no points of reference.
Now she chirps happily and lightly, mocking me. In that "Do you love me, don't you?" there is all the confidence of her satisfied vanity where the gaze shines with satisfaction, and the blood rushes to the head, pumped by tribal percussion.
Yet again, the irresistible scent of that trumpet. And She leaves me suddenly among chimes of bells, electronic squeaks, and abstract flourishes, like a great lady, like a great whore.
And as I return home, tired and dazed, I delude myself that it's not over yet, that next time She will be mine.
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