Old Soul Choruses

In the wee hours of the morní
After a long night of celebration at the pub, we came home to Liverpool
Past the sleeping, creeping remains of buried corpses in the Allerton.

Were we too loud, we wondered, as those hallowed bones all at once scorned their eerie visions for one long moment, hung high by their icy fingertips straight at us?

We nervously lit cigarettes and sang old soul choruses to scare them away, but still we felt them upon us.

Had we stirred up the dead? Or were these merely old tales now revived and paraded softly in candlelit thoughts behind our plastered bloodshot eyes?

We didnít stay to find out, as our feet flew fast, past the cemetery and out of the horror that rested itself between old bones and young blood.

By Charles Bernstein