They enter the bar.

Paper stars hang from a ceiling among false flickering light. 

Each groove and step of a second’s beat is lost and swallowed by Dolby Stereo.

The only female in the room tries to dance. Emphasis on tries, as she struts out, while off beat and breath, silly senseless steps.  

Her feet cannot make up their mind, inching forward and then behind.

They set their asses on boxes of Lite beer.  

All this happens in the wake of an insomniac’s absent dream, broadcasted in broken beats.  

The displaced darkness devours the dreaded doom of an impending day.

Nocturnal eyes take on an obscured sight, unaccustomed to the light.

The vamps come out to play.

Time has locked them in that room.  

Dark walls expose scratches and scribbles of white paint.

Graffiti permeates the venue like prayers in a parish.  

The vamps are squalid saints.

They are monks making home in a some monastery used for the supplication of disco and sin.

There is glory in their gloom of fallen grace.

Purpose becomes pointless in such a place.    

The vamps come out to spin.

The vamps from Santa Monica Bay.