Dinner Party of the Dead

Smoke in their eyes
A silver glint in the wine
She’s serving scallops, salad, and strychnine
Bittersweet platter of petite deceits

The dinner party’s dead

“What’s your poison?” Said Death’s-head
Atramentous wings shed a decaying scent
The Reaper fed


Outblowing lexicon, a phenomenal connect-athlon
Fighting for facetime, speaking through screens
Pixelated smiles in low-rise jeans

Self-Isolation—the new meditation, egoless online ID and high-rise screams
A concrete jungle; we’re monkeys with machines