God
is only standing there, ego eyes watering like a typhoon. Eye here,
eye there, watch 'em join together. A woman wants to hold his hand
but he won't let her. The unfortunate occasion of which we speak, begotten son of Pan, standard drift on nightmare Ert, doing some
bizarre rendition of a Russian squat dance, extending his long legs
and clicking his cowboy heels on the street.
A
red-faced girl laughed as she watched him, beer bottle in one hand, a
cigarette between her fingers.
Others
did the Herky Jerky, catalepting a frantic mosh. That's how it
started. The heat and motion had them warping like cardboard, feet
planted solidly, firm bodies arched . . .
But
I wasn't dancing tonight, things were too damn scary.
