Dinner Party

Curtains drop, trap door opens—

dive into the disco inferno.

Sweat it out

in the obliteration machine.

Everyone’s gone,

plates in the sink. What did you do wrong, baby? Well, I caught a whisper of course, an illegible exchange. The reviews are in. They're calling it hideous, debased,

vaporous and dead: a smug invention of self-absorption.

Basically.

On their way home, everyone is talking,

ears still buzzing

with rejection and distaste.

Fuck this and fuck that,

and most of all,

fuck THAT guy.

I crawl out wearing rags,

dropped to my knees, light turns my face, velvet contractions— CUE THE CLOAKED MAN! Is he in heels? Is this comedic relief? He dunks my head in a bucket of apple cider and gasoline,

sets it on fire. Thank you for coming.

Now I’m a human match,

obliterated inside the obliteration machine. Round of applause. Standing ovation.