The Dance of Dead Friends
There he swings—
with the needle still in his arm.
Next to him is the little pale thing
She saunters by the boy with missing brains,
who does the tango with Ms. Bottle o’ Bleach.
High up in the rafters,
Cutter, Car Crash, and Cardiac Arrest laugh.
The anemic scoffs at the awkward somnambulist.
The cancerous musician is chided for bad music.
There, in the cloying hallways,
I watch like a wretched Peeping Tom
as the undead unravel on the dance floor.
There their death throes at least provide the entertainment
that their forgotten names and lives could not.