death song #2 (en sotto voce)

intone my death song      hear me out     I want a real time extension    coz my future’s in doubt     I’ve got a one way ticket       it’s the only way out       there’s a few miles behind me      from the womb to the cemetery     every night     every day    I pray for mercy      but time will tell     there’s no other way     if my number is finally up      there’s surely time enough for one last  incantation     our little voices singing low      into eternity we flow 

drip

how do you like this sauce?       a vessel full of good intentions      idiot notions       and wholesome adult fun      the distillation of orgasmic juices      primed for psychosexual pay dirt        you can smell it      the fleshy expectation       a jolt of adrenaline      an electrical surge      we are dynamite     who cares why    luxuriate here in opulent splendour       I’ll roll us a stony   and weave some more lies       you and me baby      we’re something special        so let’s put this together     before it gets lost     

dionysus

we are made of sundry pleasures stolen    to quaff a lusty measure while we weep for something more      this world is more than seductive    it’s murderously addictive    so sweet and delicious have we become     we are killers of our sacred pleasures     and everything is pleasure      and pure pleasure is insanity     it’s the high on high  euphoric that salves the mind and frees the soul      you cannot buy such thrills      you must pocket them with scheming hands and a knowing touch      

the sweetness of love lies in the sharing of pleasure     but the sweetest pleasures are hardest won    for in the midst of joy there is despair      and at the heart of pleasure  there is pain      toil and fatigue destroys people      and pleasure restores them    without desire we have no function      without pleasure we are mere automatons     so let us all pleasures prove     for we are sorcerers and gods     in these fleeting moments     and we must relish our pleasures     before the spectre of boredom    turns us back into straw

troubled waters

 death ebbs and flows     with the tides      and seasons       my dreams are wont to do the same          with drowning boys        and bloated sailors       unnatural deaths     in troubled waters     to dream of death is to die a little       perhaps we all die as we dream        in some private nightmare        all on our own

 

isolation

I fashioned myself a tinfoil crown     proof against the inclemency of nature      when gods and sorcerers tamper with my head      I was trying to set things straight      christ knows I tried      with razor blades and sealing wax  to peel back    sixty years of insulation     the features     the faces     the names    stripped away    to reveal the emptiness of self      a million illusions consigned to memory

it’s half past dead in the morning       I’m pall bearer to my dreams        I feel it closing in    the certainty of loss      but loss does not define me       it simply reveals the true me      I count my wounds instead of sheep     every night is a little death     my isolation is a gift of the gods    a test of my endurance     isolation is the currency of  individuality       the sacrifice of my social appendage      in honour of a selfish heart