The resting place of Madame Cassie

Peace be with you! It is your humble servant, Frater Peppas. I apologise for the lengthy delay in my correspondence. I had been away shaving monkeys with Thomas again.

My readers, you will surely think it as odd as me, but I could not help but wonder whether, in some strange way, I was partly responsible for the death of the hoor, whose skeleton was found last month completely raked of it is flesh. (One fat puss remained trapped in her rib cage - silly thing, it had made a glutton of itself in Cassie's chest cavity, stuffing itself with so much viscera that it was too big to make its way out again!)

My own priestly sense of obligation compelled me to visit her lonely grave, a dumpster out the back of a restaurant in China Town. In a sweet gesture, someone had lovingly strewn the bin with hundreds and hundreds of soggy bok choy. Even more touching was the epitaph that had been spray painted on the side of the bin. It was an adaptation of Yeat's poem, The Second Coming, capturing brilliantly the passion of the Arseflower - its tantilizingly brief blooming, its olfactory splendour, and its inexorably withering (which of course, effected Cassie's righteous death):

Turning and turning in the widening sphincter
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere shite-stink is loosed upon the world

Beautiful words.