Mosquito Spray

God damn, with this guy’s white beard talking ghosts, voodoo shit. He saw an angel once, out there in the graveyard.

I’m out of mosquito spray, but I’ve got my full-beam and wellingtons. Dead bodies grow all over in branches and grass and quiet songs. There’s teenagers out back with fireworks, and I suck in the smoke like a child. I fire the torch in their faces, and they scatter the way rats do.

I tread the mud and scrape the stones. I sing my own hymn and urinate on the tombs. In the early hours, I sit on the grass and masturbate to a carved-up sculpture.

The dawn breaks and I’m caked in red boils. When the man with the beard arrives, I tell him I didn’t see no angels.