Dali in Japan

Neon-bathed nightlife,
bad animals running
the streets
of the concrete jungle,
Tokyo, the Roppongi district,
high midnight,
hostess clubs,
brothels, sports bars,
lap dances
and
drug-dealers,
the United Colors
of Debauchery,
Oh yeah, it's all good.

Watch her walk,
peering like a spy
through night-black
Ray-Bans...

Catch that image.

Patent leather
shiny black slickness
ascendent over
billowing fog shot through
with blue neon light
and still the Boys
cry for "More!"...

(inside the mahogany frame
the battered canvas,
adorned with the remnants
of an hallucinogenic
dream,
weeps melted wax
drops of the sky onto the
mirrored surface
of the museum floor:
misery, tragedy, sadness,
flaking paint,
the confetti of
torn tickets
and scuffed shoe prints)

She reads the evening news
six hours late, snatched off
the empty seat next to her,
bus chugging, gears grinding,
through choked arterial
traffic
and the headlines burn
tears from her eyes...

This is the Time,
this is the moment,
feeling all sliced up,
cut deep, wounds dry,
bloodless,
and infection is a
happy anticipation
that there will be something
at the Feast today,
something harsh and wonderful,
something to make you cry,
a sensation,
skin silk and tacky heat,
a feeling,
an emotion,
icebreaker.

Tokyo, the Roppongi,
wildside, after-hours
wildlife,
rock 'n' ruin,
pleasure seekers
and
undercover narcs,
fly your freak-flag high,
Oh yeah, it's all good.

Watch her walk,
muscular grace on
spike-heels,
Patent leather gleam,
passing you by,
rejection never felt
so damn good...

Catch that image.