by Melanie Browne
Every night I stay up late,
watching dead Socialites
parade, the snakes crawling out of their eyes,
as the worms play on the sequins in
their Vera Wang dresses,
Ray-bans melting against their skulls,
they fuss and fiddle with their oversized handbags
while gossiping behind rotting silk scarves
voices echo from my television screen
where the living and the dead live it up,
Their quiet and abandoned eyes
beg me to sign their moldy social registers,
I shake my head no, but they force it into my hand where
it crumbles into pieces like their Park Avenue Dreams