Requiem (Instrument Exhibition)

This museum is a mausoleum The stench of decay assaults you at the door Permeates your clothes, your skin And sinks into the floor Clear coffin cabinets Proudly present their dead For the private pleasure of public eyes In decorative death shrouds they sleeping lie In oak and iron beds An entomologist’s dream Preserved and pinned back tight Neat little labels Green felt canvas, dim light An orchestra of exotic insects Wood, wind, brass, bone Mouths gape lamenting In a silent secret moan The death bell toll resounds As a widow’s wail, and sings Of supple breath through tender lips And nimble fingers on cupid’s strings In an arid crack-lipped rasp They chant the cold refrain ‘We are as flame fodder masterpieces, And worm fodder saints’