Baby Saliva is Clean

I arrived late to the party.
The music was soft and sweet,
Decelerating the company,
Inseminating … by that I mean
People were dancing.
Some were writhing sluggishly,
Like cut worms, on that filthy carpet,
Lathering their skin’s surplus around them:
Cocoons of leftovers, so publicly private:
Them, squared, in self-orbit
Multiplying like house-flies
Choreographed by lysergic acid diethylamide.

The eyelashes on the couch were batting furiously for attention
But come on,
We can’t pay attention.
We can barely see each other through the smoke and the mirrors.
Outlines and silhouettes. We straddle the air as we suck our beers.
Only big hats are noticed (so somebody King them already).
Not to mention,
There are too many walls in this labyrinth of a single-story house.
(It’s a bitch to delouse – after every slimy party)

There are not nearly enough windows.
It’s too crowded. I’m lonely.

Then all at once the slow dancing mummies became drowsy,
Melting into the leather couch-pools of shoes and car keys and tattoos,
Downing shot after shot to chase deja-vu
Down dark smiling holes.
I watched lips perform these ugly acrobatics,
Telling ghosts their own stories,
Sighing in silent misunderstanding,
because all the mouths were foxtrotting at once, and sometimes not even because of that.

Eye contact is brief. Smiles and waves and quick relief.
There are not nearly enough windows.

We’re not surviving of late:
This species is perpetuated by anthropomorphic primates.
The party mix music mucus is getting too thick,
like the smoke that curls around us,
like our friends that curl around us,
Like scarves, we wear them.

Oh we can’t get our tongues deep enough, no matter how long and strong,
no matter the width and breadth of the bong,
no matter how utterly inebriated – absolutely intoxicated.
Oh we can’t get our tongues deep enough inside to really taste eachother.
We can’t get deep enough to call eachother’s bluff.

It is rare that his pupil meets her pupil,
It is rare that we can see our hearts beating behind their retinas,
but it happens.
I promise.
I’ve read about it.

We are not surviving this day after day delay of living,
crawling under meaning,
breastfeeding eyes.
Sentenced to day after day of diving into eachother’s shallow waters,
Hitting our heads at the bottom.
It’s giving us more brain damage than Diamondnal glue.
We walk the streets in twos
Curtsy on all the cues,
Holding hands,
For fear that there is nothing else holding us together.

The clouds are spread too thinly over the sky.
I don’t think I’ll find what I want on this side.
There are not nearly enough windows.

We’re not surviving of late.
We are not a culture of death, Pope John, we’re a dead culture.
Catacombs had better conversations.
That is why no one is moonstruck.
That is why no one dares to spill their guts.
That is why it feels like necrophilia when we …

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