ParTy

I beg the doveTrice to stay and become the eternal moon that

will wane the teasing of a dozen sirens grinding under the

jack o'lantern night before I let these men devour, regurgitate,

and spit my soul on the curb, along with some expired part of themselves.

Turnt to the harlequin red that cockles

through manholes above nightclubs, I become,

too, a caterpillar, neon lightning wiggling in a streak of sweat. Taste

it. The spores, the toady tongues,

the cinnamon liqueur, the first burn,

the etching of cardboard drying palates.

The itchiness of

foam, the end of time:

void of hunger,

the singularity. Trapped in the crash—

an infinity of rainbows collapsed in a skin well

of seraphic skim. We become bird-people and

dock our heads with elastic halos and

fly wistfully on leather wings, chained, in

puddles thicker than petroleum jelly as

the jester, the DJ, jams to Pitbull and

cackles to the mayhem of a thousand

undead arms bursting through the ass of night,

to the brief of an uglier disco, and to me,

the zombie lost in drool, looking for swan song in every lick.

The tune of a familiar family sitcom. Please find me before I marry

the malady that silences the bards who bellow on the curb of Time.