Parties by Alan Catlin

Parties that begin on Fridays
and end on Sunday afternoons.
Parties that conclude only when
the mole people arise from their
watery graves to don dark glasses
against the sun. Party goers who
are not so much drunk as disembodied;
all their gray matter dissolved,
body moving by rote.  Time for
all the hung over party people
acquires a new meaning, feels as
endless and as empty as when two
black holes collide in deep space.
None of the party people speak as
they crawl about the new, too well
lighted world. How could they?
Afflicted as they are by space brain,
a form of alcohol induced dementia
characterized by dead central nerve
centers, frozen vocal chords, swollen
tongues. Oh the haze of all those
parties. The ones that cut your heart out
and replace them with vital pieces left out
and the ones where the weak are primed
by stomach pumps and the strong survive
to drink again.  Some are fascinated
by parties, others appalled, but none
were bored or said they wouldn’t come
back for more.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

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