Come on—just a helldance in the rain.
The cacophonous cable car can wait;
we have love to make.
Shall I inseminate this city?
The lusty whore always cries for more:
more despondency
blood
dreams
and half-hearted attempts.
It’s not so bad, she sings.
Our city, our dance floor.
The grooves get into the heart—
a heart blackened with needle notches.
She clutches for another song;
I lick the falling acid.
Up above both of us
are silent, staring towers.
People are alive in such tombs.
That’s what makes a city:
an electric graveyard living life
while two idiots, me and her,
dance in a pointless storm.
-- Arbogast is a neo-pulp writer, editor, and paranormal investigator out in the hinterlands. His most recent book is The Living Hypnotic Death. He tweets mostly metal online at @Arbogast1325.