Miasma clouds hovering like frosted cotton fields.
The meat people sip white whales at a bleeding bar,
Talking, deciding what to do at the end of the world.
Dead auntie has radiation syrup in her musty cupboard,
And dead grandmother’s false teeth in a glittering jar.
Shall we mosey beyond these old wheezing terraces,
These skinless inner hallways of the still blue ménage,
And seek the gaping escape window to the garden isle?
There we will find the eternal ghost people making love,
Under pale moist sheets made of regrets and orgasms.
Now creeping up on Hoggett Lane and Gunster Road,
I see dead flowers strewing themselves to the watchers.
Alive again in the old houses downstream in the rushes;
They are astonished in their slow deathless maunderings.