As night falls, a dark melody
fills the air with a feeling so deep
it is the song of a dark rose
tweeting near a corner fence.
Dahlia, a withered pale woman
lies on a granite slab, still and serene
The song transforms the air, calm
infuse her chill cells, pungent.
Cells overhaul false refluxes
taint her veins with lethal hues
rose rummages the window
like a creeper it probes in disguise.
A noise of a phantom stirs in the void
The deadbeat song reaches its peak
undermining her heart waves
the roaming restless phantom roars.
"Who is the next cadaver to join me?''
then dark rose turns from grey to white
the source of the call slowly deranges
with the rise of a promising dawn.
The sunrays pack her vitals with life
a dark rose is reborn, its music unheard
may *Prana saves helpless cadavers once again
a wish for a dark song seems wanted.
*Prana, a Sanskrit word meaning breath, a life-giving force.
A young woman, her form
still bearing a mirage of beauty.
In her detail she decays
closer still, a beauty returns
as a micro-delicacy.
Her charm dips in and out
like a swan through the bodies spoilage.
Da Vinci and his artist acolytes,
those red-handed anatomists,
all owe her rent.
The swan should be redrawn,
blood-money paid
with those same blunt tools
they broke into her with.
CADAVER
(a philosophical dissection)
Dissection hall-bedding the dead,
The air thick with formalin,
Moving blades, dissecting-
The stillness in front.
Frostiness of death, biting-
The warmness of breathes!
Cadavers at peace,
Motionless and still,
Dead and fighting to decay,
Naked bodies-
With veiled existence!
I wonder,
If the dead had left some stories to tell,
Tales that neither made the pages of story books,
Nor been recited at bed sides.
If the dead had some songs to sing,
Melodies that neither echoed in the stars,
Nor rolled-down with the rains.
The untold stories and the unsung songs,
Can never be dissected out,
No matter how sharp the blades are!
The Terrible Ghastly Beastliness of
"THE POTATO CADAVER UNDEAD REVIVAL" (sonnet)
The Potato of Terror, April 24th 2002
They dug him up with a great pointed spade,
Awoke him from his rest of ninety years,
And O what a great bellowing he made,
And shook his fists, and twitched his pointed ears!
For there was much skullduggery afoot,
And horrid ghastly beastliness besides,
The Spud Maiden's Swan Song had taken root
Deep in his soul and tuberous insides.
Her tragic voice had roused the pixie throngs
Provoked the wrath of tuber overlords,
And small brown furry things in rubber thongs
Sprang to their feet and brandished tiny swords.
King Edwards, Caras! Hide your youngest sons!
A vast undead potato this way comes!
Drip, drip
Drip, drip
Melts the soiled soul onto
A dusty field of abandon
Fenced in by human limbed pickets
Yanked from the graves
Of broken hearts
Skeletal branched silhouettes
Clatter above the bloodless
Hole in the ground
The Ravens hide in the shadows
The shadows hide behind stone crops
The crops provide bountiful skulls
What is the illusion without a live audience?
Who, or what heard the solemn incantation of
Abra-Cadaver?
Am still, am at peace
For what I had and What I have
Better than dead, lying like a corpse
Physical pain can’t be felt
Nor any hurdle can stop me more
Look in my eyes and you’ll feel
The Grey shimmer of Death.
Spring is coming for you
But my autumn has yet not past
The cult of joy, the spring has
Seems not to stir my body
From this grave.
Gray scale is leading my life
And soon the black’s gonna raid it forever.
Just a premonition,
so that you fore-go this cadaver.
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