“Midnight Mass (in Fishnets)”

 My friends and I once made pilgrimages to midnight movies. We claimed Highland Park Village in Dallas as our place, like our church.

then chased the madness to Los Angeles, to New York City’s screaming sidewalks, and across the ocean to London’s Ritz Cinema at Leicester Square, where lips kissed the screen.


Special times. Remembering that season with laughter. I laced myself into Lil Nell, tap-danced my heart out— fishnets laddered, glitter in my teeth belting lines I had no business keeping quiet, without a singing voice, mind you.


And sure, some theaters tried to ban it—but you can’t ban sequins, you can’t outlaw toast, and you sure as hell can’t silence a crowd that knows all the callbacks louder than the film itself.


And now—

the poem…

 

 “Midnight Mass (in Fishnets)” 😉

by Adena M’lynn


Ladies and gentlemen—

creatures of the night, misfits, rebels,

corset saints and garter-belt prophets—

welcome to the church of Science Fiction/Double Feature!


This ain’t no movie,

this is communion—

and your hymnals?

Rice. Toast. Rubber gloves.

Confetti. And a squirt gun that could baptize a city block.


We scream Dammit, Janet!

like it’s therapy,

like maybe if we yell it loud enough

the rent will drop,

the boss will quit,

and Brad Majors will finally grow a spine.


And then—

oh, then—

it’s The Time Warp, baby.

It’s not choreography—

it’s a riot in sequins.

It’s a thousand fishnet legs

kicking holes into the ordinary.

To the left! To the right!

Hell, climb on the seats if you want—

gravity is optional tonight.


When Dr. Frank struts in, Sweet Transvestite,

every city gets louder.

LA gleams like a drag queen diamond,

New York growls like a back-alley sermon—

each Frank sharper, bolder,

more rhinestoned than the last.


And when the screen moans Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch Me,

oh, don’t pretend you’re innocent.

Every shadow in this room knows

desire has an echo.


Sure, they tried to ban it.

Theaters shut it down.

But you can’t ban a revolution that tastes like toast,

that rains newspaper crowns,

that lights up the dark with a thousand lighters

whispering There’s a Light.


No—

this is ours.

This is midnight gospel.

This is Don’t Dream It, Be It,

smeared in lipstick,

howled in harmony,

carried out into the streets where taxis honk along.


So welcome, sinners, saints, virgins, and veterans—

it’s only a movie until it isn’t.

It’s only a line until it’s your life.

And baby, it’s just a jump to the left

and a step into family.


YouTube for poetry in song. 

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