on my way to mercury,
a girl smiled at me as I passed.
I had to force a scowl.
it was half-hearted.
a dark door in a dark alley,
the chrome of nearby motorcycles,
reflected a neon-light.
"ID." she said.
"there you go, sweety,"
and stamped my wrist.
no one dancing on a Sunday.
a bit disappointing.
the bartender, a fu manchu marked his face.
a pentagram hung against customary black.
"how's yer day goin'?" he said with a bright smile.
I shouldn't have tipped him, but I did.
great music in this little corner.
good place for a troll to sit.
a crisscross place.
a jigsaw room.
on an empty dance floor,
those that dance, don't dance for long.
the lights spin lonely without company,
when we drink and become sad.
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