Midnight Panthers
Midnight Panthers
Glitz and glamour are what they know, round-toed leather heels and inverted skirts, draping onto the fabric of sanity. Smooth, snarky words fall from scarlet lips, trail through sleek auburn curls, land in your partner's prickly ear.
There is no line around the street; a lone lamppost hangs above, tall and imposing, a silent sentry to watch corners and dank sidewalks, blocking out a hazy crescent moon. Curtains drift across its surface, wispy bits of escaped smoke. Transparent as they cover Luna, still she entrances you behind the mask, shining brighter than every star; one plays connect the dots.
It's not particularly conspicuous, the Late Night Gypsy, but inside oh - a spectacular haven of swing! Rundown building with musty windows and fractured tiles, differed from the world so drasticfantastic, but oh did its soul breathe.
Beige flowers peel from nonexistent confinements and straight booked chairs with pompous cushions, holding in lacey tights and low girders, long cigarettes clutched lazily in spidery piano fingers. Slacks of tweed pulled above the ankle, hair slicked back with unmistakably oil, arms slung over gates of solid carpets; those elegant ladies don't complain.
First it's just one order of a concealed tankard and soon it's "Two, mister" and they are off, dancing with a sultry sway that transcends sounds pretending to be a language.
Warmth brings them close together (clinging), muskperfumesweat mingling with the smoke of a thousand cigars, wrapping the pair in a cocoon dispersing their view of the outside. They are blinded and still see more than men with oculars.
Like midnight panthers, they steal the light, no longer robbed of color.
It is a time I wish I knew instead. Brutally forced to know a land where magic is beautiful, but gone. One day I will awaken from this dream and return to the brass trumpets and scatting lindy-hops and other ways of saying hello
One day I will meet the Midnight Panthers.
There is no line around the street; a lone lamppost hangs above, tall and imposing, a silent sentry to watch corners and dank sidewalks, blocking out a hazy crescent moon. Curtains drift across its surface, wispy bits of escaped smoke. Transparent as they cover Luna, still she entrances you behind the mask, shining brighter than every star; one plays connect the dots.
It's not particularly conspicuous, the Late Night Gypsy, but inside oh - a spectacular haven of swing! Rundown building with musty windows and fractured tiles, differed from the world so drasticfantastic, but oh did its soul breathe.
Beige flowers peel from nonexistent confinements and straight booked chairs with pompous cushions, holding in lacey tights and low girders, long cigarettes clutched lazily in spidery piano fingers. Slacks of tweed pulled above the ankle, hair slicked back with unmistakably oil, arms slung over gates of solid carpets; those elegant ladies don't complain.
First it's just one order of a concealed tankard and soon it's "Two, mister" and they are off, dancing with a sultry sway that transcends sounds pretending to be a language.
Warmth brings them close together (clinging), muskperfumesweat mingling with the smoke of a thousand cigars, wrapping the pair in a cocoon dispersing their view of the outside. They are blinded and still see more than men with oculars.
Like midnight panthers, they steal the light, no longer robbed of color.
It is a time I wish I knew instead. Brutally forced to know a land where magic is beautiful, but gone. One day I will awaken from this dream and return to the brass trumpets and scatting lindy-hops and other ways of saying hello
One day I will meet the Midnight Panthers.