Somehow drawn to old familiar places,
though still in need of food and breath,
we leave each night and travel to those spaces
left and right of birth and death.

From some table-tipping, ectoplasmic medium,
parlour full of nosy clairvoyeurs those who truly seek
ideomotor spasmic tedium beyond communication, we might learn
that when you have no mouth it’s hard to speak.

Still, by the sheer amount of time we’ve spent
on either side of waking life, you’d think
that surely someone could perhaps have sent
a clearer sign, like, say, a youtube link

explaining how, when human thoughts subside,
we are to leave a comment/like/subscribe