The Hangry Ghosts
They spend their nights haunting an old, abandoned boneyard to hang out in, roaming and floating around crypts, while wasting their days hidden in the shadows. Always searching for something to gobble up or drink, but never getting enough. They want it all—more than just a good meal or quick snack. It’s a frenzy buffet feeding of fear and anger that makes them feel like they’re always starving and still very dead at the same moment, wanting more life. Hungry for more life and love. Happiness eludes them.
They’re so dead in and outside of their ephemeral skin. The familiar stank of decay you can’t wash away. Everything they consume passes through them. The bartender yells at the old rummy to stop pissing on the floor. You’ve heard that before. Like the old one-liner, a skeleton walks into a bar and orders a pint of beer and a mop.
The walking stiffs always go for the gusto. That forever zombie stuff, a transcendental astral cytoplasm hors d'oeuvre of funny business, is a long stretch limo at the end of the longest-line smorgasbord, but not as long as an eternity fast food drive-thru. Or a line to the public restroom. That’s eternal strands of ghost matter floating in ethereal strands of gossamer dust particles. You can do it standing on your head. It’s so easy to please a famished spirit. It’s a piece of invisible flesh cake. Blind-folded, skinned, and still alive: anybody could do it. A waste of time. Broken teeth and splintered bones.
Perhaps there are no gods left standing. Hang around and find out. Except for that guy who tinkers with broken gadgets in that decrepit skin cage garage at the dead-end of life’s dirty alleyway. He puts disparate parts together to make new, useless things that become fresh garbage. In a divinely-planned obsolescence, when the dinner bell rings, you get to go eat it. Singing your heart out loud and screaming at the top of your lungs in the shower might get you noticed, but it doesn’t pay the bills in the gas chamber of your youth. Your take on it is as good as mine. They can travel through solid objects and pass right through a body without having feelings of anything at all, but they still slam into each other like subatomic particles in a pinball time machine atom-smashing collider. A slap in the face of time. The old doomsday clock, eat your heart out boys, got nothing on these phantoms gnashing their fangs at the children’s table.
Traveling around in the past leaves no room for the future. It’s a hobby that’s become tiresome. So many universes and so few seconds left to destroy them. It’s being undone while watching your life in reverse. Deconstructed in some galaxy not very far, you can’t get to it from here. The missing link puzzle piece. It’s possible you can find yourself in a different place than the one you’re currently in right now—dead, but just as trivial and stillborn. It’s important to remember every single thought once forgotten. There’s no recourse for the same old tragic events randomly happening in a far more temporary place. An occupied territory, for instance. Free spirits or slaves to reality, either way dwelling in a dead zone, occupying a vessel that carries a soul to and fro. A systematic genocide of spirits hellbent for revenge. Fighting over a stinking strip of desert land. Total annihilation was justified for the chosen ones, historically.
From this place to the next quantum leap of faith, we enter a realm of impossibilities and infinite unknowns. That X-factor vortex is sucking life away from the billionaire's darkest void of the visible universe. It looks like we’re going through hell in the needle’s eye. Or a needle in the eye. Poke it with a stick to see if it moves. There’s no cheap trick in the tunnel of love and death. Suppose that something could happen or not in some distant future time, where the light ends at the dawn of time. Creating a new, improved dark dimension that will eventually become another parallel universe you’ll never see in the next few billion light years. You still can’t fight City Hall. The walls of civilization crumble around near-deaf ears. A fly speck, the oozing carbuncle on the butt of humanity. You know, the usual double-talk of kissing my hairy ass is never spoken yet clearly understood. Its ghost matters. The stuff unseen. Victim of timeless effluvium. Let the sun go down on them one more time. And that’ll be the end of it. It’s a tragedy waiting to happen. There should be music. Come on! Before it gets cold. Let's eat!