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At the party

I can’t even hear what you’re saying

All I can think is you look like an animal

you look like an animal

and everyone looks too much like animals

it makes me sick.


And everyone is riding on creaky horses

made of sticks and straw and kitchen twine

and everyone is killing each other

and we are all killing each other

with plastic knives and swords and dirty stares

simpler things can kill you

like milk and licorice candy and burst veins

and microwaves and gluten and long-haired cats

and moldy tomatoes and laundry detergent and

you could drop dead on the subway on a Monday morning after your daughter’s wedding

on your way to work at your husband’s pharmacy

(your husband marries your best friend 3 weeks later)


And we are all waiting in the bathroom line

waiting to shit and waiting to die

hoping no one can smell your armpits or vagina or butterflied prayers

and some people wear spotted coats

and some people drink their lips grey

and some people piss themselves because it’s more polite than leaving the conversation

hoping talking will rewire your pondlike pulse

or at least get you a ticket for a glass of tap water


I’m in the living room

and I don’t know anyone

and I don’t want to know anyone

and no one wants to know me

but here we are talking anyway

and all I can think is how much you look like an animal

and everyone looks too much like animals

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