Eunice in a donkey mask. Drunken monkeys on the esplanade. Dukes in epaulettes swill Maker’s Mark, make a mockery of my eurotrash decorum. Enter My Dungeon, entreats the marquee above the door, as downstairs, DJ Machiavelli unmasks deadmau5, dons espadrilles, mixes the devil’s elevator music. Diabolical elf madrigals and eventually the mind disappears. Entrails melt in the deafening muddle, drumbeaten eustaceans metastasizing: a dystopian euphony. Electronic mind fuck, Eunice says, Electrogothic monkey funk. Ecstasy denies me. Elsewhere, dentists drill to Mozart, enjoy mellow dinners, mixed drinks and the marriage bed. Drink-up, Monkey, Eunice says. She says Molotov, means Mazel tov, drags me onto the dancefloor. Another mine disaster, Millie! she cackles, another dose for Mommy! Mon Dieu! More dopamine, more ephedrine for the dregs of expiring minds. Mere euthanasia for the dandied masses, candy for the dwindling middle classes. More errant dubs, more melted ears as the ermine of dark descends. Decibels escalate, Eunice masturbates deliriously. More than enough for me, my darling, my darkling dance-machine. Much more than a touch too much. Eunice, dear, this is not my idea of Eden. Ecstasy defiles me. End this doomed masquerade.
Brent Terry delights in smashing narrative with assorted hammers then reassembling the shards into mosaics and ransom notes, glimmering tapestries of glass and blood. He calls them poems, but you can call them whatever you want. He is the author of two collections of poetry, and his poems, stories, reviews and essays have been published the world over (if you consider the U.S., Canada and Scotland to be the world over). Terry teaches at Eastern Connecticut State University and Steppingstone Academy Hartford.