The inside of an old Jaguar.
It always smells the same here, month after month, year after year.
Time pools between these heavy old doors as we fly through the night on the back of a wildcat.
Seventy miles per hour, hardly any other cars outside my window.
Space is all around us, swallowing up years as we hurtle between
two symphonic, clashing galaxies.
Two houses. Divided.
He calls me Juliet,
But in the remake, the one with young Leo. The party movie.
It's a druggy haze, that one,
Shakespeare colliding with discount angel wings and an affected bohemian ethos.
He tells me about the film sets he used to work on,
The Phantom of the Paradise.
He tells me of how he was almost an artist in his youth.
What light breaks free from the passing cars is always red-shifted.
The world is expanding whether you want it to or not, it tells me, whispering in one ear
While the hood ornament with the broken head whispers in the other.
Neither one is wrong.
Both smell faintly of burning plastic and the re-breathed air of 1973.
He likes the carbon dioxide as well as the blue-shifted mountain trees
Huddled together in the dark.
That's why he never opens the car windows. He doesn't want to let 1987 out.
He doesn't want to smell 2003.
2000 peels away his faded gilding like old paint on the hood.
The Jaguar still has no head:
Our household gods.