To start, their brains are still sparking. Neurons still making connections and breaking promises. And really, I have trouble with the denotaded dead as these bodies simply find themselves at rest, in pieces, on a piece of a cloud. Cerulean clean - little apple alabaster. Their flesh turns back to wax, and we light their wick embodied skulls with little matchbooks disguised as bible verses. Embalmed emblems and bodies bodies bodies. Cremation in street clothes, everything special with a man in the oven, a woman in the wood stove. Back to ground, in deep with the worms, and all the tiny evil machines as ushers. Death, hm! Is some moon rock sweat and blood blister mix, sandalwood musk, a turpentine must. You'll trust. Playing fast and loose with scripture, magnetic movement, entombed. Dead bodies are keeping check of clocks, and swallowing wrist watches, and don't forget it. Dead bodies will be late if they care to be. With their painted skin and formaldehyde breakfast, they form riddles in caskets, and what about the Egyptians? Dead bodies have rust in their throats and foot soles made of limestone. They take up space in rafters, between your bed and the wall, stained glass stained with afterthoughts, forget-me-nots.