communist manifesto

you were so unbelievably beautiful at the party, you were dancing and the band was playing just for you, aligning themselves entirely with your seductive rhythms, and the singer came down from stage and sang to you: it’s hard for me to say i’m sorry over a reggae beat. the drummer was beating the shit out of his skins for his sheer lust for your skin and the bass player, a sweet 60 year old black guy just looked at you and looked at me and smiled a huge smile and nodded to me approvingly.. and your red dress was flashing everywhere at the same time and the hip hop b-boys were just drooling but they couldn’t think of any bukowski books that could be their ticket to buying you a drink on top of the 5 i had already bought you (ok, i was trying to get you drunk, you told me it would be worth my while) so they had to just stand on the sidelines looking in and muttering an occasional ‘yea’ to themselves and then you ran up the stairs and out the door the huge bouncer was thrown to the floor from the sheer power of your charge and i ran after you and scooped you up and took you home with my hand in your hair all through the ride back and my palm against your cheek. and then you told me you love me so i stopped the car dead in its tracks and we rushed to the back seat and made love while cars were flying by and their headlights screamed and scratched on the van’s tainted windows as we merged breathlessly into one another. fire and water, an ocean of flame, simultaneously erupting inside of a magic blue van.

dare i say what goes without saying? the van drove us home without another word and i called to say i love you