The Consummation

Death has never felt so soft, As a hush upon the face, A kiss upon the back Of the mind, A lulling numbness, To calm dis-ease, And silence. Death has never sounded so soft, As the fourth movement Of a composer Who wrote to drink, And drank to write Away his loathe Of self and life. Death, I say, has never tasted so fine, As a glorious banquet To end the deprivation Of nourishment In mothering sleep- Who lines the brain In cushions of velvet dirt, Suffocating bliss, And velvet cake. An ignorance unlike any other. Death, I do insist, has never looked so sexy, A fine film of fog, In a bog or perhaps a lake, That gains in obscurity- Gains as the morning advances- As my promiscuous lover- As he envelopes my lips, In hunger, In an uncontrollable haste, To take me, Have me, Wrap me, In a tenuous embrace Round unclothed flesh And protruding ribs. To fester and seep inside, My hollow crevices, Of body and mind. To claim me, Fiendishly, In eternal union.