Blue Movie (jr)
Silhouettes press against the windows. Evening oblongs rove intimately exploring pulses, riffles and cross-currents. A blue swallow-tail spirals down an invisible staircase. The lady in blue shakes her hipless middle. A curious shark follows her rhythms like a sailor at a sleazy bar. The dance implies come on sailor, try me.
Fade out. The scene changes. A grasshopper materializes. The creature has swung out too far over the edge, toppling into the drink. In seconds the winged racer disintegrates into a red vapour.
I’ll see you at the Club Top Hat. Green residue flutters away and the film now concentrates on a pore in the river. Our shark clicks to the other side of the stream. There’s an infernal logic here to match the intelligence of any fly fisherman. If one grasshopper has missed the landing field then there has to be a hundred who’ll take a dive. It is only a matter of waiting.
The shark yawns… soothing to have water rush up against the bruised gums; the Little Qualicum is an oral hygienist… cleaning away corpses. The shark inhales acres of winged souls. The porno reel is still humming in his hyperactive brain. His grey sky fills with a rare intelligence.