CASSIE JONES

on Shayna Cohn 

​

Everything glows, but nothing is sacred. 

Part dirty joke, part makeshift discotheque,

part alter of excess.

Pregnant with neon hues, I'm going to have some fun. 

What do you consider fun? 

Fun, natural fun. 

​

Built from a pile of glitter 

-- synthetic shit everywhere --

in this heavily-stoned mess, I'm in heaven.

Or, somewhere between banal Main Street and esoteric Fantasyland. 

​

Gonna stand right here and watch that gyrating disco-ball-platform thing. 

All I need is my laughing boyfriend,

some stuffed puppets,

spasmodic tinsel,

golden pineapples,

and maybe a few stiff prisms, glowing pink with desire [that's what she said]. 

Feels like I'm dreaming, but I'm not even sleeping. 

​

It's all shared like a shameful secret;

Am I in heaven? 

Paralyzed somewhere by a lack of legs,

no one's dancing,

but she told me they're animated by their own self-pity!

Encased by ritualistic embellishments: sewingstuffinggluingwrapping

​

Sampling beats with the maven of funk mutation {Bootsy Collins, who else?}

while wailin' and shakin' to a googly-eyed Bob Marley. 

Reggae expanding with a new self-authored mysticism

Eyes protruding, still not dancing. 

​

Stepping in a rhythm to another TV intro,

in this staged reality, who needs to think when your feet just go?

Who needs to think when everything echoes:

James Brown, James Brown, 

spinning around and around. 

​

Unhappy boyfriend brought on by information overload. 

He's the painstakingly dumb genius of love. 

He's got a greater depth of feeling. 

He's so deep.

He's so deep.

He's so deep. 

​

womp, womp.