Your Poetry Dot Com - Manhattan Party- An Uninvited Study

Reborn Livingston 2.0,
on a mission self-assigned;
intrepid I, into this concrete nouveau Congo
slipped in a silent slide,
winding down untested vines
of slippery glass that lined canopies
wrought not of plants,
but an artists’ as he vainly sees
life reduced to steel leaves.

As I slip my breath held flat, i observe macabre group in chat;
some with smiles, baring teeth,
bared, as if they faced a meal fresh to eat.
I note; social, though garbed of sweaters, gilt with tiny horses,
mallets up, Harvard ties enforcing gleaming smiles,
creatures to a one sunk in guile,
holding out as due, thus groomed to grant idolatry;
though malice, floating ghastly, mirage to fade and reappear,
then peeping, seeping, and when caught unawares; there!
A slipping mask! There!
Did you see behind their eyes?

Oh, my, I must be on my toes,
I could be swallowed whole;
these beasts donning yachting loafers hiding no doubt finely crafted toes,
climbing though to bony ankles no surgeon can god’s work undo.
With shaking head, I saw one regret to let such money go,
twas the only genuine sadness all evening long I saw in his shaking “no”.

At least their bony wrists, embarrassed upper twins, refuge taken,
hiding shame with shameless gold, while vanity in gripping hold bid both obscenely thick.
Vacant eyes speak volumes, to me, perhaps alone, after all,
my passion sings to find the tune, the key to what makes them tick,
but longer as the evening passed, I knew at last the illness stumbled on,
and in every person but for me this contagion infiltrated not blood nor brain,
but soul.

As strong as death, while weak as life,
this malady possessing but a single cure;
no doctor has a pad to scribble back to life a pill,
no guru silently can cure, no chicken heads to spill
for chants voodoo magic just might bring.
No Christ or Mohammad fix the sickness gnawing them;
for the only way to gain back health is give up everything.
But such a price, "Oh my, "to high!", the option for which
they will never bend,
so in sickness they remain, until the minute shy of dying
they are begging to rescind.

Observe: fascinated limp lips twist and teeth sneak
white flashing peeks at me;
Of this eve, some peacock filled his lair
with invitations wrought of finest cotton bonded;
the cost heedless, without spare.
Ink dripped of liquid karat in archaic Gothic font,
thus ensnaring like-wise lonely souls
attending, searching, hopes ever lost in vain,
with every party all departing still in wont;

A success, his sanctum stained,
though to him projected, feigned,
his boisterous laugh
just short of beating chest;
boasting to any guest bothering beyond their gin
the owed courtesy of listening,
thus encouraged, prolonging boorish claims.

Oh, I suppose his due arrived,
and were heaven there, would be thanked;
his ego for this night survived
on floating clouds damaged souls floated in,
and some, a few, tossed a tepid “thanks”,
looking not into his eyes but at the gin.

This peacock thrives, I observed,
upon this hybrid rain;
an odd mixture ill conceived of
boredom, wealth and pain.
But, though it hurt to note,
this concoction bloomed his empty breast;
it fed his starving ego the poison which sustained.

I held secret to better see this charade to end;
to observe at last the door to close upon the final guest
the hosts/'/ lurching cashmere friend,
who with a shove the host
into the night his drunken pal did send.

Then, thinking he alone at last
let his face release his mask
so the tired drained serpent
could breath again with ease.
Unreserved, no stage, the matinee with curtains dropped,
he released his smile, eyes dimming, he cried as if near death,
that feeling ever swimming just below, could, only when alone,
come up for breath.

Alarmed, oh no!He spotted me!
His stare, though impaling, speared without a sound.
He saw I saw: he knew I knew;
A naked emperor/'/s sobbing sounds.

"Go, just go", he mumbled,
I don/'/t know you, I don/'/t even care;
you crashed my party and",
this said with chilly stare,
"If I ever see you in this life,
you/'/re last thought will be regret
you ever showed up here".

This poem is Copyright ยฉ Invierno