So we turn up the music to snub the solemn towers passing judgment.
Don’t dare contextualize us with your cheap party clichés.
Un-obscured vision is an ailment best cured with this holy cup.
Intoxication will blur the party and reality,
cheers!
As always, I take my place in the center of things and hold court.
I demand proper party etiquette from the drunks; rituals must be observed.
Jesus, We have the same name! Kind of, not really, but you’ll see it in the translation…
--That’s brilliant, that’s perfect, meeting you here, at this party, on this terrace.
Well if I could truly commit, I honestly believe she would love me less.
Jealous rages are magic for our sex life,
The party prologues our dizzy romance.
No one at the party knows it’s the anger I sweat out,
in bullets, appropriately enough, reloading
with each slurred manifesto—well I can preach too: alcohol turns
even the most profound into raging douchebags
She will find me a rival and equal to any man. Especially her man. Or maybe her friend’s man.
I’m an American, I’m free to party, fuck your towers,
its not cheating if no one finds out.
It will be Yankee doddle dandy baby.
It’s just too loud, and what if the cops come, you know? They would come. Well, the noise and the music on the terrace, you know? Terraces are very public places. I think we should leave, like, right now. It’s been fun but, but what about the cops? You don’t understand, I will literally be disowned…
I often wonder if I could seduce the policemen who arrive to break-up parties.
Parties, like religious gatherings and one-night stands, reach a perceptible apex,
then quickly decline; it’s noticed by all, but rarely commented on.
Let’s escape then, let’s make moves, let’s go to St. Marks, I’m belligerent enough
another hour of fun. Then let us begin again, another party, another terrace.
It never has to end.
Chronicles of parties are epic tales in their own right, in a certain context.
All I want is to feel outside of myself,
like anybody more interesting,
like someone who is famous or on drugs
or the absolute life of the party.
I didn’t get invited.
SM Nov 2010
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