Vanity Fair, “The Golden Suicides”

After Reading

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The floor buzzed under the pillow hairs; a sextet to his synth

“Take the time. You flew in baby waves, shaved by ripe torrents.”

Before, hulas had swam on her neck; salt had watered plants that the farmers frisked

Terry’s braid, beet-blonded his diver’s palm, had run it through his punk self’s scalp

And their burnt clothes spited wears cut for the air-conditioned screens of the Antarctic

He came after her story the way berries come after huckles

The linotype of print- brown folders browsing their insides, buried at the huckle:

Parents’ keys open the Ivy’s but they are a door jam; closeting metal on this synth

Terry’s tales wagged from clocks behind, icing his mind, twisting the Antarctic

Anomalous look-alikes; one waving harder for the other- flagging the celebrity torrent

Theresa’s mind was all “love Jeremy”, her ghosts were all “shock, sleep, sleep scalp”

Jeremy next, stripped by salt weights, held his breath for Suicide’s frisk

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