The Afterparty

  1. In the end the party is not so different than ones in the ancient world.
  2. I mean the ancient world of the global west, that bleating one.
  3. I mean the bleeding one. Roman menus
  4. that calculate how party was the party. Did you eat
  5. a whole suckling pig? Excellent. But was it a virgin
  6. suckling pig? That’s how you know you were at a capital P Party.
  7. At the party you maneuver through seditious buoys,
  8. dodge the party foul or commit the foul, collect debts,
  9. repay others. Climb and droop like the copper in the cent.
  10. After the party you are all alone, zonin’.
  11. The last dregs of residual sugars dilate and refract
  12. sore sweet spots. The charming spots that riot
  13. after all the excess skin relaxes.
  14. There’s a party. I’m there in pants. Everybody’s coming.
  15. Beep beep. Toot toot. Softcore reality
  16. principle recurs in the time of the after. Nodding off in a puddle
  17. of shoe-beer. Lapping up somebody nasty in the non-Escalade
  18. of everyday life, in a brick mattress.
  19. Everyone knows when a party has gotten out of control.
  20. But almost nobody can say when the afterparty has even begun,
  21. much less when it busts. Everybody knows that when the party
  22. gets too big it is not even a party anymore, but just the state.
  23. And the state has to not only enervate the party,
  24. but the very idea of partying. An afterparty of grim austerity,
  25. having confessed the deeds and facts of how the party had comported itself.
  26. Made fucky-face at the compost. No more making fucky-face
  27. at the compost. No more making fucky-face with anybody
  28. you don’t intend on breaking over a yoke.
  29. A yoke made of Roman wood that has never proven flammable.
  30. So you say grazie when it swats your bottom.
  31. Man, a party where Jesus Christ shows up?? Dressed as a
  32. rear guard Luftwaffe turning Fiji water into Carlo Rossi??
  33. Except for ABBA I hate everything
  34. about the 20th century. Its states, its parties,
  35. its insistence on self-reflection. So much “too
  36. soon.” Like, people in the 20th century were still sad about
  37. Jesus Christ dying? Whatever. One thing I hate from the 19th century
  38. is a painting by Eugene Delacroix called Basket of Flowers.
  39. He painted it after the June uprising in 1849,
  40. and it screams smug bourgeois triumph at a wonderful
  41. party being crushed. Like when your neighbors call the cops.
  42. I always wondered what they do then? Rub butts
  43. in bed, satisfied of giving birth to heartbreak? Delacroix’s
  44. painting is so beautiful. I can’t stop looking at it, in the Met
  45. and on the website of the Met.
  46. I’d cover it in urinal cakes
  47. until the acid in the pee of every urinal user in the Met that day
  48. blotches its radiance, makes it stink like the kitchen floor
  49. in the swampy mid-morning after a major party.
  50. But maybe it’s better to preserve it and permanently
  51. moor my delicious hatred to it. Paint a little
  52. version of it myself , perhaps.
  53. And have my friends come over to see it
  54. and praise my brush strokes.
  55. A little party maybe.
  56. Maybe try to make it one of those we’ll never forget.
  57. And the next day photograph the bruises with my phone.
  58. And say “that happened.” And never take the trash out.