Charles Dickens licks his whiskers
as the dead rise from their seats. Nothing
a little chloroform can't fix. Follow
that hearse...the chase is on, Charlie!
The dear departed started walking,
getting frisky, fluttering their eyelids,
burning the blue
zombie oil.
Gas from the rift lifting metal
birds and flying half-naked folks
from the land of mists and mediums. Where
the whole universe convulsed,
the angels inhabited cadavers in search
of interdimensional flesh until finally
a serving girl shut the rift
with a single match and left
1869 behind the coroner's shed.
