Scrapings

And yet penned, the colonized
Rehearse their mummification
With cocktail engines and scrambled
Craniums carried delicately
In party napkins,
Something with turtles
And martinis and sacrificial lobes

And the parking is atrocious, we expected
That, but the boys in straight jackets
Mouthing drink trays and cursing

Make me fetish for a clear landscape
The kind of thing that makes housing
Tracts, the kind of scraped mud
Moon chore that conjures up
A colonoscopy or a party band
Specializing in dirges and headstones.