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Wynn Yarbrough

Soiree

after Transtromer

 

We fall for the night that doesn’t love us.  How could it?  Though we set the flames ablaze in the windows, seizure in the slick, shiny lips partitioned pouty pursed pusiallinamous.  Though we relax spinalled into the globular muscle boned boy man high cheeked ass jeaned.  Though we go running, head seeded, pregnant and popular, we set fire to the nagging shadows beneath our feet.  Through the window, ancestral voices dispersed like moths struggle in flight, who still remember light.  In the parade and costumed lovely larvaed conversions, we practice- mimic the stutterer, shove the lonely, push the pudgy faces into puddles- ignore any reflections. 

 

Inside the walls, all those waifs freshly painted glide in on waifish wings.  Flesh blows from their bones, ripples in the breeze.  Inside the walls, all the constructions of tendon and bones, muscles plated over the organs, booze and bulldoze.

 

Penisulated, penised, performed in front of eyes and eyes performed for a pack of eyes beneath the skull shaven, membrane baring brain.  You must talk to your skeletons at some point in the night.  While you’ve swallowed and chewed, gazed and licked.  While you’ve been afire, dark in the dancing and dreamboat wiggle touch not-too-much-alright bathroom leg-lifted to the sink wear-this-rubber dance, those jiggling bones have been dying to talk to you.  The moths loop in the disco all night, fly in and out of gregarious smoke, batter the windows, look for the darkness behind the lights and a night that doesn’t love us.

 

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