THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

I suppose it's hard
To walk on a wrinkled hand…
First firefly, hey!?*

Not drinking itself,
The canal for thirsty souls…
Ah, dehydrated.

Above the river,
Silencing the revellers:
A young ropewalker.

Newly erected,
Do not enter signs can’t stop
Habit-ridden fools.

Atop the kebab
Prepared for my dead mother:
Rat in the oven!?

Weird recipes –
Last words of a journalist:
‘The Book of the Dead’.

*Paraphrasing Issa.