The Party

Punch-packed stomachs distilled the alcohol
into bloodstreams, and on the walls bounced
the screams of the laughing tall,
flickering scowls glared orange in camera lenses.

Up-lit dancers rubbed the carpet into balls
with their feet; a slow decomposition
unnoticed as the pumpkins slowly cooked
on windowsills, partnered by empty bottles.

Beneath lampshades, a web of white span
knots in people’s hair; spiders and bats
plastic fossils of deforested traditions,
customs of commercial tophats

dressed in costume, a daydream of horror,
comedy and war. Masks on masks, devils and angels,
sucking through straws through pinprick holes,
spilling precious stains atop stains.

Sweat and time-induced, legs rested as vibrations
continued through soles. On skins, alcohol
evaporated into laughter when sparked
by the heat of crossing paths and candleglow.

Dimmed music raised the sound of voices,
escorted goodbyes to the front door;
trails of promised abstinence whispered
in the night until darkened-clumsiness shouted.

A pair remained, a sort of easy unity
whose words fit like fingers within fingers;
in pagan intoxication they found themselves,
and in sobriety they got together.

Smears remained as the sun came up;
scars the house would bear when eyes widened,
and fake blood on whitened skin
where magnetism had rubbed two body parts together.