But we arrive to find it’s been co-opted by a cocktail bar.
The Moss wants to bounce but we’re already here.
WE’RE ALL FOR SELF PLEASURE says the menu.
The Moss says, Don’t believe it until someone steps on you.
The Moss says, These banquettes are not Real Velvet.
It's true. The dungeon is stuffy & smells like Nothing.
Whose fault is this place? asks the Moss. So we sniff around
for suspects. Must be the white men, right? Their fresh
haircuts & flannels, their half-up half-down dirty-blonde
girlfriends yanking at their bell sleeves, blushing before
displays of vintage vibrators. Too obvious, says the Moss,
setting down fourteen-dollar shots of Fernet Branca.
It must be the bachelorette party swapping Rae Dunn
in the well-lit corner. How their mouths make watermelon
shapes over Marc Almond from Soft Cell. Or how the men
sit askew on fat lambskin wallets. Or how there’s no real
dance floor, just strips between tables. Give up, says the
Moss. They're not looking at us; they're looking at Feet.
We think the Moss needs some Other Company.
So we sort of shimmer towards the bathroom
where everyone is beautiful but no one is touching. We are
brimming with Better Ideas. Hey, we say, let's stitch
these hand towels into Crop Tops for the Less Fortunate.
We see three girls crying into their beige. Look! we say.
See how we brought our own little scissors? See how
our eyes pulse in time with the LED ceiling? We tease
the first girl’s hair until we understand her. We swap
the second girl’s vocal fry with a fingertip veil. We just
eat up the third. The Moss finds us all gathered inside
somebody’s bell sleeve singing “Weird Science”
and says it's last call. What's the matter, we squeak.
Couldn’t find anyone to step on you?
