Detectives by Ronny Quasar

Detectives camouflaged in silhouettes, in existential dread, crushed by the atomic age, waiting for the shakedown, the information, waiting for the switch to come down, tailing the stevedore through the cobblestone docks, play of light on the murky waters, the felons profile hazy like gun smoke.

Kal Vista, tropical detective, smokes maui in a VW golf, lost in the ripples of a vast conspiracy rumbling through the archipelago. Disco detectives waiting for the deal to go down, through the night of shifting panthers the ghost car rides, staking out the palace of vice, 8 balls dusting the glass coffee table; the safe door is left open, the passports are missing; a Cessna flies low over the isthmus.

Savage detectives, tramps, punks, subversives, brokers in underworld transactions, infiltrating cults, searching for runaways in the orbit of fast cash, road maps, black coffee & cigarettes. Fugitives with identikit faces, alias like a cheap toupee, dropping folios of laundered money in car parks and elevators.

Past midnight, the patrol car plunges through the fog of Collis Avenue; agents poised at the listening post, decoding stealthy jargon, tuning into the sub frequencies of the metropolis, city lights flashing like neurons beneath the infinite night.

Polymorphic overdubbist