It was Edgar A. Poe’s anniversary of his death and instead of absinthe and bemoaning life’s fragile state, some friends and I gathered to watch ‘The Black Cat’ and eat snacks, followed by a night out at the goth club. I go every now and then to these event nights as the music doesn’t suck and it brings the freaks out.

It’s always fun to watch the sexually ambiguous dance about, losing themselves in whatever beat they are attempting to capture. It’s a dress up kind of deal, where normal people get charged more money for admission. It’s a good mix of ropey-haired, latex wearing girls that look like evil dolls, punks, nerdy types with a dark side and a penchant for trenchcoats, older “lifer” goths, a tranny or two, and a smattering of military boys out on leave in dark clothing.

Smiths, Siouxie Sioux, and Thrill Kill Kult sends the masses into a taffy-pulling vortex in the smoke machines and strobe lights. Sweat pours down, glistening in bursts of light, collecting in cleavage and collarbones alike. Beautiful arms, tattooed, clad in black bondage gear thrust high above the heads of the crowd as a navy boy stomps about giving curious glances at other boys. People throw shapes, the music pulses on into the night, and I can practically smell how youthful everyone is.

For a moment, it carries me too, I feel like I’m feasting on their youth and I feel young again. It’s moments like these that make you wish you could freeze time, capture it, like an insect in amber. To be a vampire at that moment in time, strong-arming the pychobilly boy up against the wall where the strobe doesn’t quite go, sinking my teeth into his perfect brown neck – I would have sold my soul for it.

This is what you came here for? This dance to celebrate death. Not Edgar Allan Poe’s but your very own. The fantasy lingers only so long until I see where the sweat collects in his dark grey military fatigues and then I just wish I was his underwear.

And there’s that realization that time moves on, moves forward and doesn’t wait for me. My mouth is dry. I’m 36.

I go home for a cup of green tea and bed. It will be raining heavily this next week and it will be spent in doors, writing terrible verse to a buck-tooth girl in Luxembourg or piecing together pieces of art for very patient men.