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.

 

Forum Comments:When talking of the freshly dead
Image Credit:Saint-Petersburg Theological Academy
Michael Ashley lives in West Yorkshire, & in between dodging the turds that life throws at him, and walking his dogs, he writes a little poetry. His work has been published in Carnival Lit Mag, Gutter Eloquence, HorrorSleazeTrash, Zygote in my Coffee, Rusty Truck, Boyslut, Black Listed Mag, and many more.

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