Posts Tagged ‘Dead’

I do wonder,
What plays in the head of a dead man?
As all warmth finally fades,
What regretful dirge,
What orchestral round of applause,
A decapitation by piano strings,
A bowstring run across the jugular,
It’s all static cremating your brain,

The reaper hums a gloomy tone in your ear,
It’s an aural kill-switch,
As the lights finally bleed out,
Will it be an elegy for a lifes mediocrity?
Or a celebratory crescendo?
Either way it will be your final song,
And there shall be no celebration,
Only the void.

There was a man from Amsterdam,
Who had fallen foul of the reaper,
Taken from life a touch too soon,
In the morgue he did repose,
Waiting for so-called family who’d never show,
His family had forsook him years ago,
It was thought he’d rot alone,

But this was still his big day,
So along came the poets and civil servants,
Bouquets and verses in tow,
To perform this hallowed show,
To send off this main failed by society,
To gift him a final valediction,
The words,

Rust In Vrede.

Aloft I hold this charred skull,
In the parlance of Hamlet,
Mocking the heavens,
Eye to eye,
Ocular to cavity,
Azure to dark void,
A hateful grimace grows across my face,

I feel the desire to interrogate this spectre,
Of inevitability,
Of decay,
Of entropy,
Of black veils and autopsies,
The unwanted rest and ones left behind,
Of an end like a runaway train,

I hate all of it,
I hate you death,
I resent the fires of hell,
And the zephyrs of heaven,
I hate your wielder of the scythe,
I hate that you force this rot upon us,
I hate that this all ends,

In the laconic gloom,
I swear the skull grinned back.

Life slips away,
So begins the last rites,
There’s no end to the ceremonies,

Cleanse the dead,
Wash away the sins and victories,
The cloth wipes away any humanity left,

Dress the dead,
Hide the scars we all made,
With a stately red tie,

Serenade the dead,
Tell lies and fake anecdotes,
Pretend you didn’t abandon them,

Bury the dead,
Hide it from our eyes,
Let us not see its white skin innocence,

Drink to the dead,
The rum and revelry shine on,
Heartache becomes headache,

Forget the dead,
Let them travel to the styx,
Onwards to the next one.

That thing there?
That fetid and putrid thing there?
That stinking sack of necrosis?
That rotting monstrosity?
That musty cadaverous creature?
That insult to the senses?
You want to know about it?

That’s one of the writing dead.
See how it feebly grips the quill,
Rotting hands writing reams of scripture,
In this sacred crypt-cum-factory,
Soul-less eyes barely keeping track.
We constructed this abominations from our dead,
As hopeless in death as in life.

You see them now?
Rows upon rows of scribbling cadavers,
At oaken desks built from coffins,
Rotting in harmony with one another,
Decomposing guts spilling to the floor,
Skin decaying and yellow,
Scratching parchment in concert.

What do they write?
Further death sentences of course!
A most unholy charge,
Perfect for these unholy beasts,
Devoid of mind and soul,
Bereft of emotion and morality,
Without hope or aspiration.

I hate this one in particular,
This disgusting shell of a life,
I loathe its dead adoring face,
I despise its silver locks,
I abhor its stunted form,
I knew it in life,
It once called me Father…

Writingdead