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Found language piece. Language for Exquisite Corpse taken from NY Times article: Morphing Figures, Mismatched and Distorted [3/30/12]

I try not to go there very often….

Amusing poem about a very special place called the Monsters’ Club.

We’ve come back from the dead.

Life for want of a box; seems somewhat ironic that I am surrounded by boxes at work and no I don’t work at a funeral parlor; I work at Kohl’s. Grisly Load – A Process… most days I empty boxes of crap and all I want to do is curl up in one and die.

Working myself to the bone… more like working while I’m shaking in my bones; I don’t just hate going to work but I’m afraid to. Working Stiff… I couldn’t be one of those zombies even if I wanted to be but that doesn’t stop me from dying inside.

I could smell the dead and still I smelled worse, my bed becoming my coffin; how many times I wished to die in my sleep. Memorial Scent… when I finally do die there will be nothing left of me but a mess; I will only be remembered as crap.

Happy Halloween.

The poem is based on the feelings of a child who finds love and grows with it only to find it all a dream, transcient and fake. Reality is unveiled and the child who is now grown up realises the futility and imprecision of love.