A Song To My Mother

Yesternight you chose not to visit my grave.

I wanted to tell I’m now a mass of powdery bones dancing to the noise of the stereo in my coffin. But lately the batteries have burned out, and I needed you to get me new ones from the market.

I’m sorry I pledged the culture of suicide but  I wasn’t the only he was calling. We were many, depressed bodies obeying the alchemy in his whoop; pecking our eardrums and dying in resonant space.

He promised that the grave is honeyed than Heaven.

What are you looking for?