The dead punk rocker
kissed somewhen around one o'clock this morning. The room they were in was very red. The apartment building containing the room was also very red, and could have been mistaken for a Bourbon Street monastery
Cleopatra's lips matched the room. The Punk Zombie's were pasty, of course, and probably tasted like beeswax and titanium oxide.
Words followed the kisses. Inebriated questions and answers. Uncertainty was tabled for later; right now this was the thing to do.
Later, on the dark porch, more of the same. Other people came and went, some photographing the incongruity. The Punk Zombie, ever in character, saluted them with the middle finger and told the lensers to 'fuck off'. Cleopatra smiled shyly with her bare arms around a cold, stiff neck.
They watched a Polaroid develop, slowly and milkily. It was sideways and perfect.
Halloween, whenever it's celebrated, is magic.