Fête Galante

Isosceles formations of hooligan ballerinas
improvise folderols on the harp to a chorus
of four-letter words. Even the headmistress
sees how well the party is going:

the glasses smashed,
a thrilling bocage of divots
where once the croquet lawn
kept itself pinned to the ground.

The tortoise permits himself to be fondled,
shyly at first, but make no mistake.
Did I (retching noise) put what
in the lemonade? I certainly did.

Looking glass because but for, rabbit hole
because fastest way between here and there,
Mme Verlaine’s heels in the air because
if only, which is to say not tonight, not ever.

The little fat girl with terrible skin gets sick
in her hand and opening it releases
a butterfly that flops back to earth
and touching it sticks to and drowns in the puke.