Autumn 2012

Like two friends of mine who visit me often while I am looking at clouds

You both are standing there, blank as needles. My body is like a bush you’ve accidentally dropped your keys inside.  You are looking through me in the casket.  You are wet eyed.  You know nothing about death but what my shut mouth tells you.  The clouds are white fur beyond where you are standing.  The clouds are brain-dead animals purring against each other in the blue carpet of sky.  You see one stuffed inside my hard remains, my shirt buttoned all the way to the neck.  It floats a little out around my neck and makes a sound like a just-born deer.  It begins shrieking until an old funeral director comes along and stuffs it back inside.  He walks away, shaking what’s left of the cloud from what appears be his hand.  It is only then you realize what you’ve been doing.  My corpse has been floating.  And you, my friends, have been standing above it only to hold it down. 



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Brian Eno - "Music for Airports"