Posts Tagged ‘death’

I once met a woman at the watering hole,
She spied me across the pine bar,
Sultry eyes with rum held in gaunt fingers,
There was something fated here,
A once in a lifetime event I fear,
I had to approach,
Drawn like an inevitable end,

A bell tolled somewhere else,

She was a deathly tempting creature,
A pallid face and sunken eyes,
Her ebony dress hung tight,
As if only bone hid beneath,
She spoke through knife edges,
Honeyed words upon a scythed tongue,
The dialogue flowed like deathbed tears,

A bell tolled close by,

She pecked me upon one cheek,
Leaving a chill signature,
She turned and beckoned me,
A fell wind followed her step,
It was love,
So I joined her,
And my lips turned blue,

A bell tolled by my ear.

Greetings mortal,
You’re looking rather sour,
Is the end rearing its head?
Then you’ve come to the right place,
Our establishment specialises in grim expirations,
It’s a booming trade I assure you,
What brand of death do you desire?
We have all the classics,

Would you prefer a bombastic end?
A crash or fall or rope,
Or maybe you favour the slow exit?
Pills or poison or water,
Do you fade amongst doting family,
Taken by pestilence and malady?
Perhaps you wish for a warriors death,
Iron to the gut in another’s defence?

So many possibilities,
Will you rest in a mausoleum?
Or be bleached bones upon the dune?
Our supplier rides a pale horse,
And is never late to deliver,
I wouldn’t ask for a refund though,
All of a our stock must go,
And it shall.

Life is precious,
Like a ruby set in a ribcage,
A canary in a mineshaft,
It is the most beautiful of things,
Revealed in all elements of the world,
Waterfalls and leaves and sunlight,
The blush upon a cheek,
The uneasy clamour of a foal,

It is also fragile,
Like ceramic lungs,
Easily damaged or snuffed outright,
Entropy always bearing down,
Ribs can crack,
Light always fades,
Water always evaporates,
The canary always suffocates.

On this day,
Put on your sunhats and bathing suits,
Grab your towels and sun cream,
For we are all tourists,
Not in Rome,
Not in Tokyo,
Nor in Lapland,
Not even your local beach,

But tourists of life,
It’s a holiday of decades,
Under many suns and moons,
A limited booking,
With activities for every ilk,
Scholarly or athletic or otherwise,
Our time is limited,
But the possibilities are limitless,

This existence is a vacation,
A long stay in a terrestrial hotel,
And nobody knows their checkout time.

Oh women of Italia and beyond,
Do you suffer in your daily lives?
Bruised by the fists of an abusive spouse?
Is even your home an unsafe arena?
Rush ye to Lady Tofana,
She may hold your salvation,
Though it shall cost you your virtue,

She shall offer you a deadly solution,
The poisoners bounty,
Lead and arsenic and belladonna,
All wrapped up in cosmetic mask,
With St. Nicholas presiding,
A tasteless and crystal clear death sentence,
For that special man in your life,

An unsavoury state of affairs perhaps,
But when a woman is pushed too far,
There may be no other recourse,
Than to call on Lady Tofana,
And her Manna di San Nicola.

Death is a panther,
You cannot spy it amongst the bush,
But you know it hunts you,
Hunts us all,

A killing machine to the bone,
Scythe-like fangs,
And eyes trained on your every breath,
Following your scent since birth,

Its claws rasp across grass and asphalt both,
Its hunt could take years,
Decades even,
But this feline always gets its meat,

Death is a panther,
It’s a grizzly or falcon or barracuda,
It’s an apex predator,
Not formed of flesh and blood,

But of solemn inevitability.

Does a headstone speak to you too?
Do you hear their voices?
Friends and family from beyond?
You’re not imagining it,

There is an energy among the resting,
A family reunion through cemetery gates,
A last chance at reconciliation,
Or chastisement,
   
Life lessons,
Spiritual advice,
Placations too late
And loving words missed,

It’s meditative,
The feeling behind you,
That is your ancestors behind you,
And they are your allies.

Heed it.

The symphony commences,
As the sky grows dark,
Metallic warnings in the air,
Cacophonous and shrill,
Like lost souls lamenting the plight of the living,
From their vantage points,
Those sirens have seen the approaching flags,
Riding upon rockets and helicopter blades,
Their hymn warns of fire and brimstone,
Depleted uranium fireworks,
This is no party tune,
But the raucous dirge of a nation.

I remember that quill,
And the desiccated hand that led it,
Candles barely illuminating the dread at work,
Manipulated by the rotten hand of a poet,
Skeletal and rank fingers ushering the pens path,
Fetid flakes of flesh falling upon the page,

This ancient quill,
A veteran of many campaigns,
Wars of calligraphy and manuscripts,
Crafted from the feather of a long-extinct bird,
A yellowed shako worn atop,
This tool was marshal for the ink spot rank and file,

In this writing desk mortuary,
The musk of death runs deep,
Poet and pen rotting together,
Twin tombstones upon a page,
Writing like this is a form of necromancy,
Horror creating beauty.

The beats of life are undeniably beautiful,
But treacherous by the same measure,
Like performing ballet on a cliff edge,
A knife blade,
A ciseaux through the years,
From the first position to a precarious cabriole,
All smiles while waltzing upon pointy stones,
It is a radiant performance,
Worthy of a standing ovation,
But all take bets on which foot will slip first,

This chalk stage of existence,
It’s a steep cliff face,
One we all ply our trade upon,
What lies below doesn’t bear thinking about,
Waves and scythes,
Dashing rocks and terminal coral,
It’s built upon limestone and inevitability,
In this great dance of life,
Even a prima ballerina tires,
We all slip eventually.