To My Love Part 4 Tbc
My post-mortem may bear the stroke of your hand, in your lap,
On your knees with a single tear so priceless
That may fall on my cold cheek with power to revive, resurrect.
But not this time, not this time.
My virility dissipated, my strength evaporated, my hope diminished
My pain increased, my sadness swelled, my dying delighted.
*
It would be no accident for the entire firmament to welcome the marble statue
Off to the higher ground so sterile and so heavenly boring,
The penurious acceptance committee may not be human but would piss me off!
Well, as Carrickfergus quietly spells out its notes, may I be burned!? –
I support the idea of still being able to choose,
Just to avoid the heavens being shocked by my St Louis Blues.
Oh, isn’t it such a fascist oppression when one is wounded so deeply
That starts circling in the whirlpool of emotional punishment
And yet as an indigent vagrant almost obsequious cannot die nor live without it.
*
What the ledger of life hides no incarnation can reveal!
At the time of my rite of passage I have reached the nirvana of destruction,
No tuxedo, thank you, just a bullet-proof vest.
Walking through a quiet field of death in an early April
Absorbing the consequence of sparagmos like an icicle above my vertex
It dangled with hesitation while being depicted in the singing of blackbirds.
For others it was the most precious commodity found in that dump.
And they came, chump after chump.
The zircon in my eye sharpened while looking through the scope
Repeating the drill again, and again, downing it in a oner
The paragon of excellence that could not be surpassed,
How foolish, and how inhumanely sad!
Incredible! When one thinks of it the thoughts are being turned into an auger!
Blame me for the executions as I go through sepia - the auger through my heart,
Blame me for daring to bring it back from the event horizon
Being on the inside of it and escaping the pull
Give me a chance to embrace my life and play it under new rules,
In the jungle of the Congo like Tarzan, this time – king of fools!
I never wanted an ornament of honour, as there was no honour in it.
Give the golden brooch to the old lady witch at the sooty ‘Meyhane’!
Just sail on under ‘the bridge over troubled water’- and keep sane.
(to be continued...)
Copyright © Hound Of Poetry | Year Posted 2019
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