THE ST.VALENTINE'S DAY PARADE MASSACRE
by Andrew Williams

"Sabina has a thousand charms
To captivate my heart;
Her lovely eyes are Cupid's arms,
And every look a dart:
But when the beauteous idiot speaks,
She cures me of my pain;
Her tongue the servile fetters breaks
And frees her slave again."
--Anon., from *Amphion Anglicus* (1700)


Every writer has a holiday they love to loathe: e.g., Harlan Ellison's
venomous Christmas essays and William S.Burroughs' truth-telling,
cover-pulling "Thnaksgiving Prayer." Etc. My personal favorite holy day to
vent my bile upon is St. Valentine's. The so-called Hallmark holiday. A
gold mine time for sellers of cards, chocolates, flowers and other
ephemera.
It can and will be argued in sentimental quarters that we knockers of Val
are down on his day because a) we didn't get cards from our classmates in
school and b) for us, Cupid's arrows lose their zing when this day comes
'round. In my case, a) is false, b) is true.
But the point is still valid. Most of the crap that's sold on February 14
every year to guys hoping to get laid or just not get killed is just that:
it's either audio/video treacle, fattening or allergy-inducing. Or all
three. It's also an affront to those of us without companions. It
celebrates love for those who have it, and balls to the rest. In short, it
is one big fucking pain in the heart.
I have made it a policy to have nothing to do with this established
holiday. The world's merchandisers will clean up just fine without my
FRN's. There are plenty of suckers who will take up the cudgel, driven on
by merciless advertising and their own bottomless need for possessions.
And--God help me--sometimes I wish I was one of them.
There's nothing like the feelings one has when giving flowers to a lady
love. Flowers are potent symbols of sensuality and sexuality. They are
poems in and of themselves. The chocolates and cards can go straight to
the circular file--or the stomach--but flowers fly unerringly straight to
the heart. And it's hard to face another goddamn day without a hand to
hold and a heart to feel.
So yeah, I hate St. Valentine's Day--just like Southerners such as William
Faulkner and William Hicks hated the South. Underneath all the opprobrium
is a lonely heart that aches for love and sees all the endless window
displays of loving couples as slaps to an already weary face. I despise
not just the cheap symbolism but also the absence of someone to share the
world with.
And Hallmark and Whitman can eat it.

Black shades and cognac
Dreams of the Western sky
Wagner on the player
Coastline looking like the lines
of the loveliest lady you've ever
lief laid eyes on
and the apple swings
just out of reach

I imagine bikers use
a more earthy eargot
but this is the heart:

Let me help you
play all the good games
there are

(and then play them again)