there are no romantics anymore, only mercenaries of the heart. they do not seek love but seek only conquest. love is their lucre. every interested eye collateral on the impending triumph. every tender missive of thought impaled on the spears of victory, modernity.
the conquest is no metaphor for sex. physical conquest is not the contest. it’s the dry-eyed cynicism of card-dealers. at the table, at the counter, at the bar. world-weary and unwise. self-assuredness blinders on their bloated faces, their cackling pallors. they seek spirit as payment, no corporeal on the corpse, bitte. vampire fangs shed as shark’s teeth, to fall into circles about the cranium, to dig in with malice, malevolence, martyrdom. blood blinding, sweat stinging, ears ringing. how they laugh, how they laugh.
so love, what love? what worth hope when these times are filled only with facts? love is not fact, love is myth. mythical, more. it’s shadows in the forest and implied meanings, gracious glances and hurried phrases. scuffed feet, dawdling legs, twisted bits of paper in anxious hands at unplanned gatherings. it’s not cannons fired from ramparts, unfurled sails on the high seas. expensive suits, three-hundred dollar haircuts, german engineering, fluted glasses - all assorted shades providing cover for a vacuity of spirit, intent, disg(usting)uises for a vacuity that needs no covering.
so let the empty-eyed empty their eyes into each other’s emptied lives as they all dance together, for the fiddlers will weep while they watch. this world of play-acting impresses only the actors, deceived by their own actions. the glitter never impresses the waitstaff. sneering behind swinging doors, parodying from the orchestra pit the greasepainted handwringing of affected affection.
these myths should belong to those with empty passenger seats, with shopping baskets instead of shopping carts. not the vile grubbing hands of business managers and sports fans, pseudo-artists and chefs.