Kind of crazy to think about holes in a sky. But maybe I did see two shadowy figures in that one hole. Who knows? I was drunk on cider, vodka and mud. —Caldor Clemens, in Shane Jones’ Light Boxes
Dance songs don’t sound so different than they did ten years ago: dangerous, big blood, big sugar, big bass, 808, big data, viral octaves slyly minxed; we’re the only ones older. Dance songs a nuzzled maw, blunt velvet ginger vinegar vodka tonic, and every single one says the same thing: words are not enough: speak touch. Our eyes rolled back with want, beat is the below-world hum, the free-fall net that holds us up, red thread tied to the backs of our hearts. Red song is threaded through our spine and strung behind: sheer steel wool yarn of wistfulness, reminiscence, made of a murmur eternally echoing, Return, retreat, revolve, revert, regress, until the liar murmur itself seems genuine vision, illumination, toxic chord progression. The antidote’s to shut or shake it down. The antidote is to look up, exposing throats that with our every step give a faint pulse. To drop with the kick drum, hips ticking snare, tsss when we touch each other white hot high-hat of surprise, the countless human bodies we’ve desired reduced to jewel-tone sparks around your gorgeous face, don’t be afraid to look me in the mouth, green lights, mixed drinks, the beat drops back in, four to the floor, you’re pearled, you’re in the plum flesh, you’re in the pocket, there, yes, there. Give me something, anything. You know what I like.
