Harry Boatman 1879-1916

Harry Boatman 1879-1916 It is true my friends. A man thinks of many things While on his deathbed. A man remembers and reflects and responds. He responds, as with a child, to The insistent pleadings and proddings of the wall clock, Responds and obeys, as with a woman expecting, to The cosmic commands of the moody evening tides. The incredible colossal circling globe, of Spasm and sequence, of eyes opening and shutting. And there it was my friends! My last orgasmic breath! My final desperate inhalation! My final impeccable embrace! And when it happened, When my closing eyes saw sable night at noon time, Two black and yellow butterflies, Mating mindlessly in the side garden, Took me by spirit High above the wanton walnut trees here, And at last, I saw The soft benevolent eyes of sweet Jesus Beckoning me to join him, there! From the blinding masticating center Of the rising resplendent sun.