This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.Dear honey toast, my happy toast,I need you in my tum.You're something sweet and wholesomeWhen the world's run out my bum.The Norovirus is a painSuffusing my whole being.My tummy hurts and groans a lot,With legs and back agreeing.I'm at the other end of it,In more ways than just one;My bum's been busy, my tummy scoured;The nutri...
Beneath the ground you are alone completely by yourself. In an urn you simply chill on your wife’s closet shelf. Before they put you in the soil you pray for absolution. After you’re a London Broil you could be air pollution. The remnant of your buried form is ghostly and ethereal. The remnants of your cremated one can be spread on breakfast cereal. Underneath in sealed concrete you simply fade and rot. Cooked above you s...
