#816 - in the afterlife

 

30.iii.22

816

3.89

in the afterlife

a tumble from hunger

 

for godsbother

 

find me politely

the same old tricks

possibly teaching dogs

 

keep the voice we’re used to

throw it

one more in the choir and sink

 

all thinking is wishful

as in the dream

coming back, ready or not

 

everyone’s pretending

many burst into song

and wave the wings diaphanous

 

washed up like sleep

in these such eyes

as yet remain

 

a hardly hover

that burning

as if all consumed

 

forget my socks

forget my feet

never get sick of the weather

 

lose all perspective

follow any funeral

hair of the mutt for belief

 

on the ghost road

picture the religious garments

we cannot call this free will

 

unless it is the case that

(and we ask you all to forget)

incredible, true, but it turns out

 

that everyone was right

you might never

wake up here