Dinner Party at Third Strike
Your smile burns the parade at third turn like iron thoroughbreds tossing jockeys under hoof. Flat lined above swan-frond napkins sponged in hot ethanol, bella mushrooms and books. Kitten heels tapered in kamikaze configuration tip-toeing around collapsing chairs feigning the wit, whatever there is left of it.
But we never joked of such things, continued to set the table in radio crystal painstakingly measured in amps, having lost all its frightening appeal; little shoes crushing the mascara for what it’s worth didn’t work. Feathers the oat under puffer fish pool lights tossed in breakup bouquets and pirate hooks.
Red stitch of cirrus foams beneath our private umbrella robbing the phonograph of its electric punch. Frost sleeves pinned with ninepins knocking as parlor mines are carefully placed. Strikes the licorice match dancing above bastards bedded in cotton, guarded by a mean row of confectionery marionettes.
These anniversaries that end with a jack of the knife. Candle tin hysteria languishes across the frequency, flesh eaters glued together by boxer sweat. Dragging eyeless dolls by the button, a daughter tugs for sympathy on pant bottoms stitched in flamboyant serifs, careful not to fray the knit, ordered to be silent and just sit.
A brilliant write Yarborough...your language skills are truly enviable..
Very well penned. God bless
There is something about the language you use par excellence I must say.