the nihilist movement, the fatalist waltz

by Steven J. Serafiani

We meet at an art show downtown,
we are both alone,
we exchange glances,
your french new wave hair,
my pompadour,
God damn you are beautiful,
a classic,
I sit on the steps of the gallery smoking a native american brand,
you come up behind me and ask if you could bum,
I oblige and you sit,
we have nothing to say,
pensive yet eerily comfortable,

We rent a studio apartment in Silver Lake,
put that freshly cut key into the lock,
I stop, look at you and we both beam,
order chinese and sit indian style in the middle of the empty room,
the moonlight our candlelight,
pour another glass of a three dollar cabernet,
make love on two day old berber,
you lay your head on my chest,
rhythmic, rhythmic, rhythmic,

We fill our new home with thrift store finds,
fill our fridge with farmers market finds,
find a new nook to make love in,
you lay your head on my chest,
kiss your eyelids,
your nose,
your temple,

We sit on our vintage couch reading Bukowski and Plath,
drinking scotch from the bottle,
dance ballroom in the middle,
I dip you, your hair like kelp pulsing on the floor,
and then pretend we are hero and heroine in our own noir,
pull you in hard and plant one on the lips,

I buy a thirty six remington,
tap away unconscious in a smoky corner,
you buy an easel,
hair ponytailed feathering a canvas,
Dylan needle point on the phonograph,
we talk politics,
we talk poets,
we talk cinema,
we talk romantic,
we talk passions,
we talk truth,
we talk fears,
we talk family,
we talk with moist and dilated pupils,
we talk,

Then we don’t,
then we fight,
now a ritual,
you scream about my infuriating habits,
like leaving a fucking empty tube of toothpaste,
I call you a drunken whore,
you accuse me of looking at girls at the flea market,
I accuse you of fucking the whole town that night you returned after three,
I sleep on the floor,

I sit clanking on blank discolored keys,
a wastebasket full of crumpled shit,
you sit, your hair wild stabbing at a pelt,
using a dusty pie pan as a palette,
the music now the tension,
our dead skin coating every square inch.