Miss Sevigny's Wedding.

Chloë Sevigny’s wedding

I crashed in coke flour

with a dust storm enclosing

multiple of my friends in garms from

a new type of chic

underwear line.

I asked them if the sand didnt itch, or get stuck in their gums

they just explained that their mouths had been surgically embedded with porcelain

and that food was pure now.

I recalled cumming on a stranger’s face

ten out of twenty two-rated flashback.

I had crashed Chloë Sevigny’s wedding

and my mom was coming with me as my plus one

It was sweet and pure like porcelain.

During the festivities I lit cigarettes for myself with an aerosol can.

My mother was upset, because I had stubbed her toes with my cuban heels

Live and let earn, I’d told her.

Across the bar was Chloë Sevigny as a young model on a big poster

Andres Serrano had made the blow-up and I went to smoke underneath it

There was a small

tiny

picayune

door under the poster

opening it and going down

lead to a lead-painted living room.

I stubbed my toe, tasted some of the lead paint because of

nostalgic tendencies

and left satisfied, sexually.

The romance was lobsided, assymetric and ugly

but the connection felt between the wall-hole and me, eating paint

was deep and real.

A new sincerity dawned on me.

Me and my friends were stuck in dustbowl.

I stuck my bare toes in the sand, counted to ten from twenty two backwards

and

i

realized

what way

an arm’s artery

correctly

is opened.

The dunes made themselves clear and the old tractors of gone times were poking up here and there

we adapted quickly.

Mass produced a couple of Gaudi-esque bungalows

started an anarchistic bakery

and made multiple closeted homosexuals and racists happy along the way

The dustbowl was my home and Chloë Sevigny had sold it to me.