Apocalypse Beans

Apocalypse Beans Sometimes it seems your chest is about to cave in. You try to catch a breath but your heart flutters like a dry leaf; Just more suburban undulations; Dressed down for a slow blues song. Apocalypse Beans sizzle on the fire. Life has such trying interludes, when it seems you can’t go further. You are so tired and scared, you can hardly urinate at dawn. Your mind begins to see air movies of the dead ascending; Crawling out of cracked tombs dressed sedately for the soirée. A million funerals go by with skeleton girls sucking on pixy stix. Madness angels in garters pass over sleeping streets searching for blood trees. Stallion-dressed men-dogs chase down old octogenarians for bones and wisdom teeth. Fear worms from hell come slinking, Oozing out of a million eye sockets, Sucking blood and brains sifting through transparent wires attached to rubber-hosed machines in musty rooms. A million funerals moan inside the old graveyard adjacent the First Methodist confines. Gum-chewing embalmers gather to sing a torch song to the driveling and the dying. Sometimes it seems I can hear the female choirs singing, their high-pitched Latin refrains again. They stand erect in the choir loft fingering missals. The young girls up there, wear choir togs and slithering plaid beanies. They read the notes and eye the glowing boys below. Jesus and the stained glass ghosts look up from earth. Apocalypse Beans sizzle on the fire. Their cackle reamed with burning forget-me-nots.