Behind the leaden

Monument, did Molly blow

Me up. She wet her

Lips onto my valve,

And began to huff and puff.

Inspired thus, now

Did I rise, above

The mausoleums. Hundreds

Of feet in air I

Rose, witness to such

Sights, till from my valve did my

Molly slip, groundward

Did I plunge. The breath

That held me aloft, spurted

In her hair, as I

Collapsed, behind the

Wall, deflated but content.

Mol, what a keeper.


At Sandhya did

They drag from rain swollen clay

His rotten hulk

Demanding him to

Surrect, and roping his neck

Led him to temple.

“Have not I earned my

Rest?” he quailed, drawing sniggers,

“For your comfort we

Care not,” they called back, “our need

Trumps your want!” He begged

“Was not my death for

You sufficient?” No answer

Gave they , as they forced

His hands to lift the

Posts, constructing their house of

God, and he wondered

How many years his

Dead flesh would sustain, for when

It crumbled to dust,

He could depart and

Never be returned to this

Putrescent world.

(Image from Klarion #1, DC comics)