I like that some of my cells won't know I'm
dead but party on as though as
host I'd gone to bed and
left them to it while they shout
"Loser!" and turn up the music, break out the
drugs, search my house for something
serious to drink and it will be
several cold dawns before they feel the
lack of food and warmth and
realise that the
doors are locked.
Elsewhere other guests ignore the noise
decide to bide their time and
sleep and dream of all that
nutritious gloop I will provide while
in the attic one tiny bit of
grit imagines deep time and the
Sun's last despairing belch
spraying them all starward
whizzing past each other yelling "Hey!
When's the next?"
- Add a