The Imminent Occurances Of Postmortem

As some of you guys know, I have elaborate theories of what happens to the soul when the corpse eternally draws its lids over the eyes. This is one of my most recent ones.

They are all wearing masks,
Shielding the eye from truth.
Underneath, the enigmatic metal
Emits hate in ultraviolet rays.
They gracefully swim through forests
Of doubt.
Wavelets of proof rustle the leaves
At the surface.
In the darkened, rocky, bottom,
They show each other
What is truly under.
Their metallic sheen,
Illuminates the false assumptions.
And scares away the deer,
Fleeing in a school,
Against the current.
They need to surface
Or they drown with the lies.
Defiantly scouring
The vast heavens for an answer,
The smoke emitted from the burning clouds
Enters their elongated nostrils in tendrils
Of question.
WHY DOES LIFE CONITNUE?
All organisms just seemingly loiter in the barren void called earth awaiting their Imminent incineration,
Brought upon themselves by sin.
Senseless lust for eternal life.
Fornicating amongst themselves with theories.
Greed towards their deceased friends,
Who are already bathing in the fire,
Cleansing them of faith.
Our masks are flammable.
No matter which way we go after death,
We'll be exposed.
Whether by the flames of hell,
Or the warming flames in the fireplace of heaven,
After the pulse becomes parallel with the lines of latitude on the maps,
There are no lies.
The departed can no longer find a hiding spot in the jungle that lacks autotrophs.
Truth prevails and the liars learn that an admission to heaven can be revoked
By the dreaded pitchfork that stokes the fire burning our masks.

-Steve?-

After All It Ends

(I was thinking about all of us. All our inside jokes and fun times...and I came up with this. This is written from my perspective in a few years. I meant to read it...and it sounds way better when I read it aloud rather than on paper,but never found the chance. So here it is.)

I still snap my fingers
When it’s time to clap
They say “Put your hands together”
And I? I snap.
I still think of room 211
When I see a post-it note
I still shiver
Every time I read what I wrote.
When someone says “jam”
I think “poetry,” not “bread”
Since then, recitation isn’t a trial
It’s become joy, instead.
When someone says “Gimme more”
I think “That’s not right…”
I feel like something’s missing
Every Friday night
Because I wasn’t at MHS
Listening to poems about transvestite
Dinosaurs or chronic insomnia
But when I tell them how I miss it,
They just say “Get on with ya”
But how could they understand?
How could they see?
That words bond more deeply than any history?
Carrying couches down hallways
Who thought that could be fun?
You know, iHop is the place to be
When a show is done.
Under-cover operations
Were never so significant
As when we hid the flowers
And hoped the bucket wouldn’t tip.
In my head, MC and Benson
Are basically the same thing
If you’re looking for a techie,
Victoria is king.
Activity periods and cheese-its
Tend to go hand in hand
The best directors’ meetings
Are those that really…weren’t planned.
When I’m feeling creative,
My instinct is to doodle on the white board
When someone says “Hang on…I’m writing”
I never feel ignored.
When I hear something significant
I think “Mr. Collyer would have his head in his hands right about now”
You know, I still miss Kassi and Solana’s
Bow-chica-wow-wow
It’s the little things
That make us just like the poetry we write
I still miss Friday afternoons
Every Friday night.

~~Frances~~