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)
Herman’s Hermitage 