The grievous procession waves their hands and they seem to be holding their previous relations at bay while the murk gives them another opportunity to get up and fall down. They are the third generation of the Grief Family. No more qualms about it. The matriarch has fallen. They tie her up in gaudy pink ribbons and close the lid on her gilded rose coffin with sadness and triumph. Hats off for the hearse, yet curse each remembrance with a statement whittled thin and terse. They've got the ideas but not the execution. Their notions just tease them when they should line them up and shoot them. And with the smell of death on their shoulders they freshen their breath. They're a decade older and done up in each others eyes with lies. Throw everything away so as to doll up this romantic fray. These days of indecision and insecurity steadily overarching, they are overly conscious of who should get them. Their words are nothing but gravestones lined up, stone icons of suggestions past. And present: They stand. Done down and damned. When they set the stone in the muddy ground it will sit and wait. Over the years the birds will drop their condolences upon the marker and make it look as if it were splattered with marzipan. Sweet shit, mutters the ugly grandson. In the haze of the funeral party, each drink is a reminder of the essential inability to express oneself. They swim out in a consensual circle; the human buoys a chart of single points on a black and white grid. Unconnected they moan within all this stupid swaying, dim noises out there in the crescent moon refracted upon the surface of something.