Where does all the bullshit come from?
The build-up of crap, making saints from flesh.
Anyone would think they were gods.
I watch them all suck it all up:
like dirty sponges on sink-top.
Full of poison. What ever happened to honesty?
These people aren’t gods; they stopped being relevant
decades ago, except to their nearest,
dearest, & maybe their dogs. I can’t stand lies,
told over the walnut or elm of coffins, or in
the near shadow of the departed: they stink the worst to me.
Don’t embellish, don’t lift flesh into the sky.
Let the pyre do that.
Your arms will only falter, wobble. You’ll stumble
backward, steady yourself—
face-plant the steaming heap.