St. Moritz Club
In a few hours, we will create an illusion.
You cannot place me.
I have already placed you.
Vacuous. City boy. Driven to the point of self-destruction.
You will draw blood. I will taste it.
But for now, you are just another prospect.
I have been watching the crowd.
Chic automatons. Coked-up baby dolls.
A mini-skirted version performs
Some interpretive dance.
Edie Sedgwick, three decades too late.
Tragic. Dishevelled. Utterly ridiculous.
And the suited gentlemen, out for a fuck
Are creaming themselves
Over pubescent girls.
Vodka sipping. Feet tapping.
Regulars since 1990.
Their vinyl affair is intellectual.
Gloves on, seams flat, and lipstick sealed.
Our elegance belies intention.
I hold my dance partner close
But look over her shoulder
Deceiving wallflowers with our embrace.
Tonight, there is a lust for duality
A human instinct, transient, but necessary
Figures float away, The night winds down
And I feel the chill of solitary.
You know a secret. We leave.
A long line of black silk leads your eyes
From my heels to the knees
Which you will wrench open.
Moonlit, the night acquires a dignity.
It is not mechanical. It is not permanent.
It is a moment.
A recognition that beauty transcends aesthetics.
We could be anyone.
I do not care for your name.
It is the illusion of intimacy I crave.
Soho at daybreak. A Dalí painting.
Outside a café
We discuss economics
While kids beg for spare change.
There is nothing to contemplate
We will hold hands as strangers.
We will walk. The click of high heels
Punctuating the silence between us.
I have pictured it.
A leading lady bound in public noir.
My mouth parted.
The same pink as the flesh of my sex.
Fingers. Glass. Beautiful agony.
With your long overcoat
And your generous lips
You invoke a young Belmondo
And I want to be your Jean Seberg
‘A bout de soufflé’ in the rain.
