I lifted you as high as I could.
The next day my left arm ached,
And I half-smiled recalling why,
Proof I had done my job.

It came as no real surprise,
To be accused of doing nothing.
The only woman pallbearer,
Of course my body should be brought into play.

The aching of my arm
Was proof
That I didn’t let you down.
Until, of course,
That was the task at hand.

To:  A Flaming Heart
            Of the Hedonistic School

From:  A Slow-Burn Refugee
                Of the Broken-Back-Pack-Mule

                        ¤¤¤

I've had dreams by day
That brought the nightmares back.
?In the daylights exposure it was dark  
When the negative light was bright.

In the sea of people
I was the floating remains
Of a Great White's meal. 
On the lonely roads of thought

My mind was in gridlock.
Comforting memories were suspended
Over a psychic black hole
By jagged and rusted

Medieval-type surgical tools.
My remaining senses
Were nailed to a cross-section
Of psychically atrophied grey matter

Along neural pathways
Guarded by gladiator-type tormentors
Left with nothing
But the stinging desire to be freed

From a curse that had to be cured
And the hell of searching for a cure
When I was convinced there wasn’t one.
The powers that be come with force

To quell primal lusts & desires
Forbidding you of them
As they seductively
Dangle them before your eyes
  
Until you are so frustrated and unfulfilled
That you no longer
Care for your world.  
This cracked glass remains empty

Even though it is constantly being filled
Then spilled or leaked on the floor
Until you learn to lap it up
Like the lapdog that you have become

For their amusement.
You remain with a love for freedom  
But your cage is so large 
That you think you are free

Lost in societal fantasy.
You think for a while
That these fantasies are real   
Until you come to your senses that aren’t

As you join other fools
In comfort that you're not the only
Broken-back pack-mule. 
But in spite of it all

And in the face of them all
Don't let these birds of prey                                                          
An­d powers that be
Deprive you of what they can't see

In that hidden corner
Of what is still untouched--
The real you
Uninfected by the world.  

Take care of your spiritual affairs.
Don't let the global beast
And your primal hissing forces
Make you be your own pallbearer.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker

(There’s something that I keep in my pocket, a piece of dental floss, flavourless now, chewed to a white nothing by my own mouth to wring out every strand of his DNA, but now it just tastes of me and nothing else.)

My sister was wearing a black dress made of crepe. I remember it so well, the way it scrunched up in my fingers like paper, my knuckles juxtaposed against the colour, white with tension, against a bottomless backdrop of black. I held onto that dress like a terrified child. For that moment, it was the only thing that existed for me.

gotta sit here, gotta stay, gotta sit here.

(Memories of bumblebees with their innards hanging out,
“make it start mama, make it start!” it’s a common reaction amongst children so I’m told.)

I did not feel his soul sliding past me. I didn’t feel a thing, not a single thing.
Is it the same as turning off a TV? Energy dispersing into the ether? A kettle boiling, bubbles stilling? How can he have just…stopped?

He stopped.

I have felt many things in my life. The whole spectrum, from dizzing highs to drug doped ecstasies, suicidal jaunts to white-edged nothingnesses. But I had never felt abandoned before. Not truly, sincerely, abandoned. Marooned. Bitter. Desperately bitter. Terribly, terribly frightened and deeply alone.

There’s nothing like the smell of flowers to jolt the senses.

I let go of my sister’s dress and walked – not ran -  but walked out into the daylight.
I remember that I had my head held high - I could have just been going for a smoke, going to make a phone call, going to check that the sky was still up in the air and not down on the floor like a carpet of bluebells , but when I reached the door of the church I started to run.
I ran right in front of cars – **** it! – across the road to a half deserted carpark, winding through the cars like a ******, and slunk down to the floor in front of a parked white van. I thumped my head against the cool metal of the bumper and started to shake. I remember my body feeling somehow too big and too small all at once, I remember laughing at one point because it seemed like the right thing to do. My shaved head hit my knees with a thwack.
I’m not here, I’m not real, I’m a black and white thing, I’m just a black and white thing...
But I was real, and there was no escaping it. All of it was real. The carpark was real. The flowers were real. The only thing that was not real was the thing that mattered the most.
“You ****.”
I got up. I started to kick the van, kick the wall behind me, and kick the air.
You read about it in stories and you see it in films, people losing their marbles and hitting out, heroically bleeding from the knuckles, stinging, saying ‘ah, ah.’ None of that happened for me. I hit so hard I thought I’d broken my hand, but my bones are ******* stubborn. The world is ******* stubborn. My mouth felt like it was bleeding, but it was just laced in a cobweb of spit.
“You ****! You ****! You ****!”
I took off my suit jacket and draped it over my head, pulling it tight; a black ghost in a carpark in the countryside.
I felt an arm wind its way around my waist, and the rustle of crepe.
I sobbed up my grief like catarrh, the lining of my jacket wet with spit and the inevitable chawing tempest of tears that caved in my stomach like a perfect punch.
“I’m losing my mind.”
My sister grabbed onto my hand and squeezed, hard.
“No you’re not, Arthur.” She said to me, with certainty.
“No you’re not.”

the weight is deceiving and the weight is due
like the weight of a wanton heart
the weight is bereaving and untrue
like the weight of a guilty heart

don't wait

i looked, and there, in the glass
death rode fast behind me
i looked, and there, in the glass
time stood still before me
i looked, and there- out there and beyond
my eyes betrayed me

don't wait

if ever you must carry- carry on
carry on as the sun, whose brightest ray has yet to shine
carry on as the moon, whose darkest day you'll never find
and as the stars, who spend all their days reaching
out there and beyond
falling short, but ever closer to glory
all the while, quietly sharing the heavens

A charcoal suit hangs in the closet,
it stays clean and freshly pressed.
Fine leather shoes, always polished.
A selection of silk ties,
each blacker than the last.

He keeps his fingernails clean,
he is efficient.
His back stays straight,
he ignores the pain in his feet.
He knows what to say, and
when to say nothing.

Callused hands that whisper
the names of the dead.
Gray of eye,
soft of speech.
Lips well acquainted with,
"they will be missed."

He practices his smile,
warm but at a distance.
His presence is not unwelcome.
He does his job well,
and never once asked,

"Who will carry me
when my time comes?"

Long and lithe fingers,
comfort moulded into cones,
is where art kisses geometry
and meets one of its own.

Her hands are to touch
manicured and glazed,
you feel home and lost
a Pharaoh now, and next a waif

The nails, you find and wonder
filed for a student and trimmed.
Not a wisp of colour
bare as a bone, naked and skinned.

Snug in a life song,
a pallbearer of untold griefs,
they are a stark sight
of colourless coral reefs.  

On but a blue moon,
they’re a savoury rare,
when hungry eyes feast
on the riotous fair.

Why, one day, I ask thee?
She would smile and wouldn’t tell.
‘Never felt like’,
is her No Comment.

upon a hill with the birch and pine
into the shade of north mountain rain
past the foot-marks and berry bushes
i tear into the frame of what makes me.

i dig holes into dim reflections
and use and fuse the self shut.

tongue can taste the ripping of wounds
the sour and gluttonous spite
my greedy mouth chews and chews.
teeth tear the rusty bearings lose

and i sink in the swell of the sea
where the stinging is most.

Stranger Pallbearer
Don't let that coffin slip
through your sweaty palms
Faithless preacher
read your psalms and
don't mispronounce his name
No one may have knew him
but he was still somebody
This sad little man
in his unmarked grave

when you last saw me
i was a pretty carcass
wasn't i?

painted up for the funeral, you were
my pallbearer and up the stairs
you took me. i sat on your
shoulders because no
one else came to
my funeral.
just you
and
i.

when you last saw me
i was a pretty carcass,
covered in dirt and worms
and decomposing leaves.

in your arms you took me, your tears
washing the grime from my pale,
dead face. i remember how
it felt to watch you cry
for the first time and
i wished i was still
alive to tell you
not to. It was
just you
and
i.

when you last saw me,
i was a pretty carcass.
your love died with me that day.
and when you last saw me,
i was only a carcass
you wanted desperately to love.

Error code: PXZ003-2-b:
"WAIT"

Blinking blindly,
unaware of absurd metaphysics,
the device flashes its advice.

For years now, probably; no one's sure.
The rest of the machinery's in pieces;
save this one brilliant gem of advice,

slowly sipping energy through
a dingy solar panel:

just enough to keep going

A red light blips
on the untended prophet,
yellow caution tape draping
impotently in shreds --

although there is an allure
to what fabrics conceal.

He sees none of this.
At first.

He arrives in a huff,
swearing and panting.
Pacing nervously, he lights
a spliff and throws his head back.

"I know I haven't been around much,"
he speaks in a vaguely upward direction,
"but some people say you're listening,
and that you take requests."

He laughs, flicks some ash,
and lets a sigh creep out.

"Just. Just. **** it, I don't know.
Give me a sign, anything. I'll listen."

He inhales and snuffs the roach
on his sole.
The serenity of stillness marches
in as a pallbearer with an empty casket.

A red light catches his
peripherals.

He walks to the device,
removes the dress,
and uncovers divinity.

How could he deny the voice of fate?
He waits.

When may I?

Not now under the
lampscope in my
G.I. gear—little doughboy
to hashtagged Iraqi vet.

Not now with my
hand tentatively against
your sickly body.

                               "Two weeks.
We're sorry."

Not now as the pallbearer,
my clutch like vacuum-sealed
lips parted for
you.

Held back by what is left of your
afterlife pride.

Not now as I watch a hurricane
gradually run aground,
wondering if the waves will crash and
if the sea will come inland,
flood your grave
in wet kisses.

If only it could stop howling for five seconds,
just to hear me.

Unhitched feel me now like a blast furnace     Total ****-up   Remeber? the one who was pallbearer & genderless
Neo natal I'm at the rim pitch black coughing up laughter finding **** in the face of it
Cog in the computer
Backward  bell curve
Left skewed
Average
Low
So low
Nobody in particular really
just mashing buttons hoping it's a payoff
Not god just a phantom limb living for the hell of it

Wrest my head from this,
a twinge as illusive as pins.
Rake the bottom lore,
as off the mark as 'sins'.

I'm neither lessened
nor strengthened,
I reek of applemore and soot.
I draw and I leave unconceived.

I grow without practice.
I denote without lye.
I smile hopeless, with gladdened reprieve.

My pallbearer whistles,
and thinks of my joke.
I painted enough. He believes.

Turn tears now to grinning,
as I've learned the unbluff.
May I end this long night with a seed.

I - Sunrise at Futamiguara/Revealed Intent

The piano on fire/
echoing throats of crystal

Village Mystics resign their title for a quick drowning

(dream)

Wedded-Rocks tide
together while Tsunami rolls in

(Izanagi / Izanami withstand the thrashing)

Japanese Autumn
welcomed as I watch a tinted rose unfold its cloaked chaos

(wherein a panther heeds its calling)

My heart has revealed itself at last


II - Love

bristling zeal/
halycon eyes & Haitian drums
aid the muscles
christening scene-

- bridal dancer pollinates a sleepers teeth in love poems fused with salt

&labor keeps the diaphragm sky
(with pinneedle clouds) afloat

I temper the image tilled with pen/sometimes it doesn't feel enough

(the shadow devours itself)

III - Conservatory of Music/Child Complex

Each gate of heaven its own sound

each device of wrath like doorstep-

-chimes (miracle)

or a whimper dashing through a lake
(vision of pallbearer)

gas heater/
the central puppeteer is dimmed, enjoying his contemplation of the (crafting)
day

999 violet walkup,
I can faintly hear what sounds like a private fountain

   (misguided flamingos bathe here
   and die
     during ***-season
    
   (panting)
  
IV - Joyful Soul/Reconciliation

   Year of water,
  exiting the glassness

which
  once showered me in doubt
  
-remove the cause

... and discarding my obligations
(they have only been actors)

undoing-
where phoenix-mind
owes/
erudite/the staggered
  single conversation between grace & naivety/

Balinese temples smeared in
  urns
(******) ash & brass &

frame of fade (childhood) yearning for bedsheets and harmonica temperature

V - Reminder/Ocean Choir

(tiger tiger burning bright/amplify your helplessly

joyful your motion
the motion of eager
island-seashells
  repeating archaic
     imitations (meditative)

VI - Painterly Woman/Temporary Gladness/Objective in Medium

my family is
sculpted by candles countless candles
(shadow dancer)

-inhaling holidays

I nightmare
     skin emerging from my bedroom wall
the

suggested image written with higher potential imaginative range than the act of looking at a "described" moment on a canvas. As one suggests their own image in writing while as painting assumes its own image for you. The reverse transaction. One cannot author a paintings beauty such as one sculpts the image from ink. Both are as immediately beautiful. Different mediums for different objectives (or rather methods we use to achieve this objective)

VII - Unattainable

Pine drum;winking
fashionable clothmats
copulate for silk and ever purer
silk
ever purer
(silk)))       the child universe

will bleed like
gardenbed

(amen/doldrum/amen(doldrum) amen)

VIII - Spring

Aware (zen taste) - moment evokes a more intense, nostalgic sadness connected with Autumn and the vanishing away of the world

This is the unbinding of words
as my terrific dead lover of disaster
put it-

(Somehow the unforgotten
name remains lavish, after all this reconfiguring, the infertile soil we attempted to escape,
the shade we hid in once like a peacock's coat, somehow the name, your name

remains clean)

At nineteen years old
I had to ask my coworker
What it meant to have someone
Stand at your wedding.
I have seen more overdoses,
More suicides,
More accidental shootings
Than I have seen lives created;
Lives joined.
I do not know what it means
To stand at someone's wedding
But I do know what it means to be a pallbearer
Because I remember the tears
In my father's eyes
When he laid his father to rest
Due to medicinal negligence.
I do not know
What exactly happens at a wedding
But I can tell you
What happens
When they find your best friend since kindergarten
Cold
In a hotel room miles away
With a needle in her arm,
I can tell you that we all hugged her mother
And smoked cigarettes
And wished that we could be spelling it
Heroine instead of
******
But the world doesn't work that way
And sometimes,
Most of the time,
When people ask you if you want some coke
They do not mean the soft drink
But sometimes the people I love
Accept it any way.

disassembled                dry-milk filaments
        casket-torso;pallbearer-legs           buried
                      the lead                        
                                    ­   tombstone read: “for what it’s worth,
               well, It ain’t”
Get me out!on thenextflight       haven’t cut since cru-el April"
             her,my,this obsession with disaster           death by Mediocrity
      she tickles my deficiencies.i whisper.witness me Divine
                            Metastasizer
the police-scanner onna nozzle         so-so dance with the gentlemen;
        to the heart of                write a novel and **** yrself
...And so began the long con(sort-o-con       a schitzo origin story
                 two invert a paradigm)         ;dis assembled matter
told’em yu why worry?      -it ain’t like the films kid-
         we got Worlds to destroy via our Creation)
…move the mark, no           Who moves the soul of those machines?
        somebody [important] dead      inna car accident and
3 colors of genuwine           stratum of white jissom retchblossoms
Smelled like a bank&mug issa
       itch of **** platter-ed                  man who shoulda upped-in-smoke at 22.
                               lotus lips          chests of oceans
Wouldn’t mourn immortality yet;
          -Can wee stay here all/night?-         a platitude is a platitude is a platypus—             :POEM:UNDER:CON
                        in                     STRUCTION:       tuition is too high!
Death by mediocrity, i whisper         she licks a falsehood;
         stick it two me!           $2.37 and a pack of menthols
Stick it in me!         and twist      darling,When’s the last luna saddle
            you horsed           a bull fever-red let it fly—           disassembled constituents quiver                      grave sentiment o’er teacups of
          perishable insight                         ,dissolved dry-milk filaments
      if fear was
                the Sweat,on my back         mountains of meat o’er hills&
under choppy grecian sea          she undoes what she did
        *ties a ribbon to an elected carcass
Autopsy report:                            that junk was better in my head
         death by mediocrity   i whisper        it ain’t like the films kid,
               and it ain’t like the news said            she mechanical jaw
inspire technicalities            maintain the train rolling or you might
                see me on the outside; emerald oracle on a sideroad
selling oranges to                 the future       ain’t grease my w-h-e-e-l
        you—and; her she watches from out-of-frame
        falling, you, i she is falling in closed
system  restrain this membrane            give (me) a hand in burning
         up this joint         (we) kicked in the door to a peep show
picture death, no                  horror of inanimate ****** press’d up-against                   staint glass                the whole **** operation
a **** ruse           I’ve never been about            wake me up for
        disassembled                a Judgement Day               the next hunt the
interval be                       Please cut to the          C H A S E
                 between Want and Wanted                     the joy/cut-me in;   is a poem      to a cross-             like me,I think,therefore
                -eyed saint     my brain jargons,               but these words are deadbeat,papa where’s the cigarettes?     sure pal, Yr a leader!
                for a funeral procession         him,           androgynous boygirl
     tested the waters,drowned               disassembled for a fountain          
                 trade me that injustice for
or a Ouroburro           a Snake            a new dictionary (all in fine print)
     with the courtesy to eat itself whole;                        Cash in
while              you can. Get some sleep.

To be in New York at the hour of your resolve
would be to contribute a tear with a titan
whom realized your misery,
and revelations.
To see your reflection in every mourner;
A kaleidoscope of what the head
could not surmise.
The downtrodder's voice
speaking out once more, for us.
Smirking,
and rushing through the streets;
The pallbearer of your own passage.

The gutters have lost their rat-king.
The utterance lost their laureate,
and I have lost a friend, to which,
our existence was never known.

the permanent shaving cut (why god made humans cut)

~for my father~

in the class of men
who need a scrubbing shave
I am, a twice a day him-hymnal

to keep the face pliant,
the cheeks smoothied,
in case some young children
come visiting, needing kissing,
by a funny-foolish Poppy

hell, I shave before I go to bed
cause I sleep shirtless,
my chin’s scruff cuts my shoulder
that badly, that here I am, awoken,
writing ******* poetry at 5:09am

but the specific cut requesting a poem
all for its lonesome is actually a newlywed pinch,
where the straying, whirring blades grabbed ahold
of the soft tissue flesh beneath the eyes,
where the no-sleep, permanently black stained “circles” live,
those tree rings of the human body

shaving cuts...what’s the big deal!

this one painful, sending out a weather alert to the brain, saying:

“Hello old friend, this red busted blood cell,
that’s me, is now a permanent resident,
a red badge of stupidity (yours),
a forever face fixture that will be
a pallbearer at your funeral,
jump into your grave with you,
for one last final deep dive drive-by screaming”

so now when I shave,
this perfect red light signal of a cautionary tale,
smiling remindingly to stick to the round and fleshy fat parts,,
pale red cheekiness where the only natural indentation are
two **** dimples - the ones no longer visible,
under the stubble of a life now measured in
too many decades

why do we cut ourselves?

(now grow serious)

not for fashion,
a scratcher beards an even greater skin-ny irritant,
this human gesture, this marker of the
daily changing leaves coloring,
this forced to mirror-address
who is that person vision we’ve never before met,
with ridged furrowed forehead,
and every day older markings appliqués,
summarizing a race to some ending,
that pulling weeds from the ground
or the **** grounds of your face,
is endlessly pointless but necessary,
a god given way to say fool!
you’ve been given a mo’ day,
and another night, wake up,
do something useful

kiss those babies too much,
write many short poems,
do a goodun,
remember,
this day,

for when you see that red dot mark of living,
it’s just another signage of closer to dying,
no use in denying, use this memory well
to make yourself attractively useful and

maybe,
some other human apparition might
come along and you’ll be reminded
smooth is better n’ gruff,
and thus shaving
helps perpetuate
the species.

Ogdiddynash

Happy Valentine's Day
Everything hurts
the nightstand's a pallbearer
the dresser's a curse
the apples are browning
the skies have gone black
and monsters are creeping
at your very back!

the wind whispers boo
and the sun doesn't shine
the birds are all dead
and the hamsters all cry

Oh Dear Valentine!

Where will we go?
Where to be being,
When the moon's made of snow?

below
below
below

Mom, do you remember all of the times I confided in you?
Crushes, school, and how to be “cool”  
I needed your advice.
You have always been there for me. My rock. My support. My superhero. My friend. But it seems that kryptonite hit superman and my rock has turned to dust.
You know, I have always been a carbon copy of you.
All your flaws, your attitude, your dimples, your insecurities,
The way you can’t move on,
Your rigorous mood swings,
Your smile.
I’ve never wanted to be anything other than just like you.
Mom, do you remember how close we used to be, it seemed we were inseparable.
We used to be able to finish each other’s sentences,
But now it seems like I am speaking a foreign language that you can’t comprehend, as I watch our relationship bend into something that even I cannot recognize.  
We were each other’s support when things got tough
You taught me that life was not a perfectly paved road.
Life is Michigan roads after a hard winter, covered in potholes filled with disappointment and speed bumps of living happily never after.
And I could handle it as long as you were around.
Our family has always been dysfunctional, split in two.
You know dad and I never got along, he’s always loved your boy, his son.
It’s always been us- just us
And that was enough.
But the day that she passed
You left me.
Not in body but in mind.
And now I’m alone.
I was there when she died too, you know.
Watching your closest grandparent die isn’t easy. And neither is feeding her, changing the bedding, helping pick out the casket, helping write the obituary, speaking at the funeral, being a pallbearer, laying roses on the casket, the list goes on.  
I haven’t gotten one good night’s sleep since she died. 7 months ago. Every night being tormented by nightmares.  
I was 14.
Mom, do you remember how you became silent, building up walls to protect us so that you couldn’t hurt me like grandma did when she left.
And, as always, I followed in example.
Every silent stare, Look of disappointment, Frown or Broken promise you slung at me helped me to build up my wall brick by brick until my hands were calloused and my heart was cold.
You gave up.
And I don’t want to follow in example, but it seems like that is my only option.
The role of mom was cast by different actors.
My counselor.
My friends.
My teachers.
Myself.
The words I love you became non-existent. Replaced with echoes of: it’s all in your head, things will get better, or nothing.
No amount of slits on my wrists, failing grades, fake sick days, or pounding fists could make you act like you care again.
Mom do you remember me saying, help me. If not, I will say it a million more times to get you to listen to me.
I am starting to doubt my ability to save our relationship.
Can’t you see that I am struggling? When I say I want to give up please don’t look the other way. It is my way of saying as politely as possible that, that I want to die.
I can’t manage to be strong anymore.  
Momma, do you remember the day you got angry and left? I cried for hours until you came back home but it feels like you left me and never came back.
Please tell me you love me and tell me you care.
Give me one reason to hold on to this world I have grown to hate.
Just, please save me.
Mom do you remember when I said goodbye?
I meant it.

In the C- section of 1990
You'll find me in the belly of July
Surrounded by the heat
Of dreams
I am still in debt
To the lessons of first love
I have yet to greet the pain of some wounds
And some I am still filling
My eyes are still observing abstinence
I am stuck in my mourning period
Let a moment pass
And let me think
About if I want to be ruined again...
When the casket of memories I have of her
is lifted from my mind
When the nights don't remind me of the promises we could not keep

"Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest"
I spoke as Hamlet died in my arms
Both the man and the play were finished today
And I was the only one to survive it
I sat at my desk in silence
The death of my lord,
My best friend,
Still heavy in my heart
And my teacher walked outside for water
And it was so noisy around me
But my soul was still giving it's respects
When I heard my name
She beckoned me to her
I left the class room,
Hamlet's only pallbearer,
And she pointed
And in a hole at the corner of the building
Sat something so precious
Peeking her little head out curiously
And with just a glance in my direction
The kitten hiding in the school building
Took the other end of hamlet's coffin
And Meleanie helped me to lift my side
And we laid him to rest in that hole of the building
Together

Cautious where my heart's placed,
careful where I show face,
when we reach the final lap,
start to see the true pace.
Tired of being surprised need to be harmless yet wise.

Jew wish to share the good fortunes,
the gossip makes the muzzle tight,
First you hear a lot of bark,
waiting till you bear the bite.
Tired of being surprised need to be harmless yet wise.

Can't always be right or liked,
the pallbearer to one who digs their own grave,
can't liberate one who sees freedom in chains,
Let me disclaim that I'm often the same,
I'll pause the refrain.

Starting to see a pattern feeling like an omnibus,
getting harder to know who to trust,
fool me twice shame on both of us,
I needed real ones to get me out my slum,
better wounds from friends than enemy hisses,
the certainty of a brides than volatile mistresses.
Tired of being surprised need to be harmless yet wise.

Bottom line is teeth are bones,
many playing an act like clones,
standing in glass yet throwing stones,
friends are few but fear is fatal,
thread between child-like and childish,
faith is so neonatal.
Tired of being surprised need to be harmless yet wise.

Learning where to seek applause,
not trying to make enemies without a cause,
best to make amigos but never know who i might offset when i take off,
need discernment to see the cain while I'm still able,
cause even if my blood cries,
I know it's been paid for.
Tired of being surprised need to be harmless yet wise.

"When Christ calls a man he bids him to die."
Though it doesn't sound like the most bonne offer it takes away the fear of the grave,
grace would have a hollow cost if no price was paid,
the hand of ****** would still leave a thirst for retribution,
Dietrich knew the true ruler of the people,
the one who holds the keys,
which is why he confidently said before he was sent to be hung for protecting the young,
"this is the end – for me the beginning of life."

sleep, my child,
drift upon the ether
in gentle mother's smile
as you rest beneath her

sleep, my child,
for there will come a day
when forces far from mild
will come out war to play

when the vicious and the terror
will tear each other apart
leaving nothing but a pallbearer
and a broken heart

till that day, my child, sleep
revel in your youth
dance among the woodbines' creep
the leaves of jagged tooth

amongst the mosses of spring and elves
sleep, my child, sleep,
for men will ever corrupt themselves
as the humble weep

and till the day when evil implodes
when all that's good survives
skip along the sleepy roads
where butterflies lead good lives

hide beneath the buttercup
for its shelter is more true
than all the falseness that's blown up
in world that waits for you

There are six coffin bearers carrying a box,
It was a solemn procession with priests and pastors,
Rituals performed; requiems sung; lamentations heard,
Who is in the coffin? Who are the coffin bearers?
A flash of interrogations hit my heart and mind:
Where do they carry the body in the coffin?
Who are the priests and pastors to the one who is breathless?
Why are lamentations ‘sung’? Why are rituals?
Are they to please the breathless corpse?
Where is the breathless corpse taken to?
Beyond doubt, the destination of the corpse is the cemetery.

Mourners and pallbearers are hired not by the corpse,
Dance performed; refrains gusted out;
Garlands of melancholic florets thrashed out;
Beats of unpleasantness resounded.

A silent spell practiced on the last journey of the corpse;
Neither a pallbearer nor the folks raised any slogan;
But everyone’s prayer in silence realized.

I am a passerby walking with a lot of reflections,
The coffin bearers shall be carried too one day,
The priests and the pastors will be taken in processions,
Rituals, requiems and lamentations will be enacted.
Coffins are ready for all with mourners and pallbearers,
Dance, refrains, garlands and beats shall be added to glooms.

I ask myself: when is my day?
Who shall make my coffin?
I cannot hear requiems in my long sleep,
I am far from rituals; dumb to lamentations,
I must reach my destination, whether l like or not,
Folks will never come with me,
For I came with nothing and leave with nothing.
Where do I go? Where does everyone go?
I cannot be a passerby to my own last journey.

I long for my day; it may not be my will;
But the day to all is predestined,
And we are to leave this shadow of life.

So, when is my day?

I've sown my seed in all but six

Left them for the pallbearer's to get their kicks
Oscillating wildly their wicks were lit
Visually aided for them to get their fix
Extemporaneously flicking their bics

Yet the six remaining were up in the mix
Our willing woman wanted forty licks
Until then there would be no turning tricks

Watching the high street bustling by
I'm not sure if I'm disgusted, ill digested or just want to cry
The buildings, the streets, the people, all want to make me weep
The Turkish barbers, the tattoo parlour,
All just a front they must keep
Friends with carers, soon with pallbearer, a life they cannot lead alone
Sat on street corners, dealers with quarters, all nattering on their mobile phones
Most smoking a vape, different flavours to take
So many races I could not name
Nowhere to park
The place an old mask
Of a generation now mostly all gone
Just jump online
Amazons just fine
For those shoes to be dropped at my door
We just sit in our seats
No longer a heartbeat
Our old friend
The British High Street....

JJB

Smeared across a highway,
organs glitter like rubies
ripped from a young bride's riviere.

a mourner dressed in the black plumage of grief
Keeps vigil in silence.
With his beak, he carves out last rights into flesh.
The pallbearer of countless souls
snuffed out on an asphalt ashtray.

Wrinkled head bent low,
he walks with the shuffle of a tired custodian,
as others rush past offering weak condolences
with the throaty warning of a horn,
at some somber procession
that dare interfere with more important lives.

Around him, Cars spew profanity from bubbling engines,
as they hurtle irreverently
through a slaughterhouse Crafted from indifference.
The serrated edges of busy lives
cutting through meat and bone.

I saw a photograph
The woman looked fallow
I wonder when she gets better
If they tell you the photo is hollow
They are sure of the memory's flaw
And who it belongs to
I hope you find your face
If you're lost in your soul
If you want a few days to hold on to
We are growing old with each pallbearer
Buy yourself another one of us to keep company
Friends will keep you hassle free
When they hand in your notice
It shouldn't come at a huge amount, a tuppence
For a pence you could change the world
If you share it
You are okay baby
The photograph will remind you how you are mine
Your emotions are compartments in my ethereal soul
But, the train has passed, jaded
And so has my reason to live, faded