Upon entering the space
I whip my head
and gawk at all the medicated seraphs.
Every utterance laced
with synthetic joy: a pill, a drink.
Sexy nuns and kinky sheriffs.
The members of the crowd,
spark plug movements,
drawn on faces,
so wide you could fall in the gaps.
Bounce around clowns,
a hedonist’s blueprint,
They finger the night
needing to feed
their arid tongues and twitchy thumbs.
As do I.
The anxiety kicks in.
Give me some Xanax
for my antics.
The blood-sucking bat
with crimson hair turns around and gapes at me with the emptiest vision.
Why, her eyes must be glass,
leaping in tiny phrases around the room with such hollow tones.
Angular bleeps and bloops,
shout at the masses of flesh
they respond with epilepsy.
Help me. Help us.
The chain-smoker’s haze
bends back like an arched spine,
doctoring the moony air.
And now my hate fills the room with atomic mass and
my depression is caused by whatchamacallit chemicals that
don’t spend enough time in their synapses.
I tell myself that I am fine
Attempting to hold, control
the stigma that is my mind.
And right now I am puking in the trash,
as wide-eyed party people look for love and
serenade me in bathroom stalls.
Like love, I am a pathological liar.
As we all
They’re all groping so intimately.
They say hell is an empty room.