Fireworks of the Dead

Sad she suggested. As the obvious overtook. Parables. In fetid underwear. The wolf not close enough to bite us.

This tired anesthesia arrives in conservative doses. I take the elevator. That failing time machine. Which leads me to approach. The devil. His underwear squarely around his ankles.

Sad she said. That lost should be where we find. The curtain to pull back. The stage upon which these actors would traipse. Obvious soliloquies. Struggle the flesh. Consume the corpses. Floundering in useless costumes. Pretending our words. In cold admonitions. The rabbit teasing the wolf. As its hole steadily deepens.

Sad she sighed. That we only have these words. Stubborn stop lights on our journey into the flesh. Priests and funerals. Dressing the dolls. For wakes that can't remember the dead.

At first, the explosion is enough. Eventually we are left waiting. For something else to happen.