Dark
Matter
by Michael Perkins
Lightening, meet
Thunder...
San Francisco is a place of pure excess and liberation, where every flavour of sexuality is there for the tasting. Robin wants to be part of it, and by embracing extreme erotic experiences to escape her father's hypocrisy. Buddy is a rebel, a wild spirit. The moment they meet, sparks fly in a frenzy of desire unbound and darkness unleashed; and when Robin asks Buddy to kill her father, he knows he has found his destiny.
Dark Matter is a hypnotic tale of erotic cravings.
San Francisco is a place of pure excess and liberation, where every flavour of sexuality is there for the tasting. Robin wants to be part of it, and by embracing extreme erotic experiences to escape her father's hypocrisy. Buddy is a rebel, a wild spirit. The moment they meet, sparks fly in a frenzy of desire unbound and darkness unleashed; and when Robin asks Buddy to kill her father, he knows he has found his destiny.
Dark Matter is a hypnotic tale of erotic cravings.
Available from:
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Excerpt:
The Spiral Dance
Gods, from your rocky home in the highest snow-capped Sierras of the
imagination, swoop down now on San Francisco, the City of Perpetual Indulgence.
Blot out all other sounds from your hearing and attend to the dark
passage of one in your indifferent keeping — one touched by you, and like
you,possessed....
Yet
another turn of the wheel, another rotation of the earth: darkness is cast like
a spell. A night without fog.
Straddling
her snorting, fire-breathing Harley, Robin Flood roars up the steep undulating
streets that slant to the sky and then down them to the Bay. She cuts a loud
eructative path through the Marina and rumbles into stern Fort Mason, a former
military facility converted into a cultural centre with shops, museums and a
famous restaurant.
A
bleached full moon leers down at her, one roguish lunar eyebrow cocked; clouds
of galaxies extend from it into forever. The dark matter that makes up the
unseen universe holds the stars apart. The Gods pay casual attention.
It is
the beginning of November, final year of the century, on the night of the
Spiral Dance — a Saturday night that falls on Samhain, when the dead pierce the
veil that hangs between breathing and not, children who will never die (at
least not in the twentieth, accursed century) eat sugar skulls, and a thousand
boisterous pagans gather to celebrate the disappeared.
Robin
joins the crowd cloaked in the exclusionary circle she draws around herself
with strangers. She does not know anyone in the laughing, gesticulating,
highspirited gathering of animals with horns, birds of prey, devils of all
designs, medieval jongleurs, Green Men, maenads and vampires. Here, New
Agers rub shoulders with Dark Agers. Here, imagination expresses the divine
with profligate abandon.
Robin
regrets momentarily that she has not worn a costume, but her eyes attract more
attention than a mask would: they are an unfathomable cerulean, like the sea. Her
glance when unguarded can be frightening in what it reveals of the cold
wildness inside. Her features are small and finely chiselled, her mouth wide
and lush. Her hair is cropped like glossy black feathers. One seashell ear is
studded with five expensive earrings, the kind ear-nibblers cut their lips on.
She’s prettier than the Queen of Heaven tonight, but there is something
indistinct, unformed, indefinable but dangerous about her, as if she might be
willing to do anything.
Hidden
behind their masks, people stare at her. Aware of the impression she makes, she
tucks her ambient rage in a pocket of her black motorcycle jacket and grins like
an ingenue on crack. She waits patiently in the line, examining everyone for
signs of the roles they might play in the drama of her life. She has a hunger
to find out who she is, and she can only learn this from others; she is unknown
to herself. Tonight her whim is that she is a temple prostitute come to worship
the Goddess, weep for her dead, and party down with the pagans. Her fantasies
are usually realised.
The
motley line snakes around the pier to Herbst Pavilion, a giant former troop
embarkation shed surrounded by choppy Bay waters. The huge space is sombre and magnificent,
a maritime cathedral filled with the anxious ghosts of the hundreds of
thousands of apprehensive young men who passed through the building on their
way to war, and the unhappy spirits of those who never sailed home. It is an
appropriate place to celebrate Halloween.
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About the Author:
MICHAEL PERKINS is the author of
six collections of poetry. The
Secret Record, literary criticism, was published by William Morrow in
1976. The Good Parts,
selected book reviews, appeared in 1994. Among his other works of fiction and
non-fiction are the novels Evil
Companions, Dark Matter and Burn.
His poems and essays have apeared in The
Village Voice, Younger
Critics of North America, The
Nation,Mother Jones, Paper, Notre Dame Review, Exquisite Corpse, Big Bridge, Talisman, Rain Taxi andAmerican Book Review. He
was the Leydig Trust's Writer of the Year in Great Britain in 2002, the
recipient of the 2007 Obelisk Award for Lifetime Achievement and the 1957
Dunbar Poetry Prize. Carpe
Diem, New and Selected Poems, appeared in 2011.
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Other Modern Erotic Classics available:
The Houdini Girl by Martyn Bedford
Lie to Me by Tamara Faith Berger
The Phallus of Osiris by Valentina Cilescu
Kiss of Death by Valentina Cilescu
The Flesh Constrained by Cleo Cordell
The Flesh Endures by Cleo Cordell
Hogg by Samuel R. Delany
The Tides of Lust by Samuel R. Delany
Sad Sister by Florence Dugas
The Ties That Bind by Vanessa Duriés
Dark Ride by Kent Harrington
3 by Julie Hilden
Neptune & Surf by Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Violent Silence by Paul Mayersberg
Homme Fatale by Paul Mayersberg
The Agency by David Meltzer
Burn by Michael Perkins
Dark Matter by Michael Perkins
Evil Companions by Michael Perkins
Beautiful Losers by Remittance Girl
Meeting the Master by Elissa Wald
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