give us your corpses, and open your chest. after so many years, it’s not the hairline, but the gurgles that you worry of receding. when repulsion fails so does all else.

ship off the bodies to thicken the smell.

there are ports where souls weep for their lost bodies, and time zones in which the jet lag never wears off.

disoriented torsos can be seen wading through clouds at seven a.m., and their bodies to be recovered sleeping first class after landing at gate twenty-three.

home is where the autopsy is; let’s hope the spirit catches on. or we’ll have one more horseman looking for his head.

just let the stench prevail for a moment longer. the modern haunt is a failure in spiritual diplomacy.