The Element of a Doily Napkin

by Steven J. Serafiani

I was entertained for the first time in eternity
(feels like)
this party had it all
forgo the string quartet though
a joint passed commune
then
attention brazen at an enigmatic macaron.

Shit, my whole existence parlayed, you see
it sat smug on chantilly doily
knew my pockets contained just stitching
even knew lovelife ablaze
this loft will be beacon breakdown
if
selfish and impulsive consumption continued.

Can this be existential?
leer, didn’t mean to; as
loft lowlight laureates spin like tassles
rub eachother in soft sweat
the loveseat forgave me
even with wand hither outreach from pretty girls
-I communicated with macaron.

My hair felt like gravy
as it waved neath five blades
I want sex
I want death
No, I don’t want death
this confection sugared it
but I still want sex-
first, almond whip will bathe in tongue lathe.

I don’t deserve-
a swirl in humanity
so I folded my arms
thought about Roma tomatoes
careless thought
the battened hatch hounds/fish enclave admired it
pink macaron, I deserve you.

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