tarnished bovine kneecap

Sometimes little sparks keep me up at night and i have to dig them from my gray matter like shrapnel and paste them in my notebook:

i wouldn't want to know what a face looks like underground. i'd rather be part of the earth sooner. preservatives, jelly, make-up seem false like a band-aid applied to a wound that has no chance of healing. the clothing is just a mockery like a dress on a cat. the body doesn't know, doesn't care. And the people there -the family- they do know, but it never looks like sleep. it more resembles a puppet show. When they've all gone, what is it like under the dirt? like a drunk (or a child) fallen asleep in an odd position with shoes on and no one there to care for them, undress them, move them into warmth, into bed, give them the comfort they need to make it through to tomorrow.