Long Undertakers Poems
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I don't know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don't know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don't know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don't know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
loving miscreants.
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don't know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.
We opened the jungle gate for them...
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
First draft
I
By his deeds he was duly judged
And by his greed he was condemned
To the bowels far beneath the Earth-
Cursed tenfold to rot and feed the maggots unfed.
Stark Kilns was his doomed name
A man who burnt with hideous flame-
A name to forever tumble to oblivion
With its proprietor’s ruins and vision.
Not a soul wept
Not a tear on cheeks crept.
Not a soul attended the funeral
Save Kilns’ only overdue Aunt Feen-
A shrunken lady of a hundred and fifteen.
There petched on the solitary scaffold
Was the casket, a sad but terrible thing to behold-
For every inch of it gleamed of black-
A thing that still makes me tremble as a feeble stag.
The old priest by dogma read the eulogy
And alas! The casket was lowered
To the bowels of the cemetery
As the Sun hid its pale face
Beneath the horizon.
Thinking that this had brought the end
I turned away from my hiding behind the fern
But my attention became arrested
By a hollow sound, as if a drum had dropped.
There, the very black casket had reached
The base of the grave harder than intended.
Or perhaps the undertakers were in haste
For I had noticed them on edge and none chaste.
Then the undertakers fell to filling
And cursing that grave which today
Is marked by nothing but a pale olive tree
On which every evening perches a mute owl.
For ten years, that olive tree has never a fruit borne:
For ten solid years the owl has had itself sworn
To keep guard on that tree, that hideous tree
And Wait for its doomed master, I presume.
It had braved through like the very true son
Who had lost to the claws of cold death
The best dad in the world. So it had braved
Through the rain and cold that had plagued most days
How the town stirred upon becoming sentient
Of the cold guest at Kilns’ resting place.
Nothing but the owl was on the people’s menu
Many a townsfolk went to see for themselves
How the owl stared back with so much nonchalance
How the creature just glared back, its huge eyes inert.
The townsfolk upon leaving would but mutter:
“A ***** creature! I never trusted Kiln’s death.”
It came that these very townsfolk then sat
And secretly planned to bring to its death
This inert guest upon Kilns’ grave.
II
Please don’t blame the automatic weapon
that synagogue killed me, tragically,
the other day
The hands which held it
are Second Amendment clean —
Gunpowder washed in crimson water
of dogma purity
I was just the latest recipient
of an over-the-counter, scarlet backorder
Which came with a limited scope range
death warranty: Multiple kill shot guaranteed
So pistol please, don’t fire scattered aspersions
at the sacred bear arms ground of innocent gunplay
Judgmental splattered tones
always try to open fire and spit spray fault
in a bullet hale of invective trigger rain
To cover misconstrued issues
over fresh, bystander corpse bloodstains
It’s just eulogy plain dirt wrong,
to give credence to indignant moans
berating innocent gunplay
I wish somebody six-feet above
could control
this outrageous, gun burst cry of
emotional criticism
Knee jerks got no ex-caliber love —
Glamorous magazine
affinity for kinetic pellets thereof
Bear arms pawns like me want more
Camelot night undertakers,
wearing grizzly gravedigger gloves
My only tear grievous cardinal sin,
(of fearful last rites)
was that I wasn’t gat blast packing
to give a gun battle fight
I was just good target practice
for some gun-toting holster devotee
Us untimely death mismatches
got smoking barrel burned
On this, we can collaterally all agree
That poor, inanimate weapon
was simply an unsuspecting vessel,
used in a grisly altar sacrifice
Ricochet oath bound
to help a hot metal head
exercise their inalienable right
to take a life
Don’t muzzle blame that clean weaponry please ...
or the washed Pilate hand
that calmly palm pulled the deadly squeeze
This is just the roulette wheel price
which every American Idle breathing body
gotta rolling barrel, lottery chance take
Winners get their engraved names
obit posted,
without any undue process
yellow tape delay
And this I must say
with deadly seriousness —
We of the speeding spherical fallen,
slain by the blessed cray cray ...
be fatal fatality souls
Those bullet-hailed as revered victims
of the hated, innocent gunplay
Something was so terribly wrong, the room seemed upside down, the furniture was out of
place, the scent of flowers all around.
She wandered from the corridor, into the main living room, so many people gathered here, a
black atmosphere seemed to loom.
Her mother sat upon the chair, crying in her tea, "whatever's wrong"? she asked her mom,
"please won't you confide in me?"
Her Mother gave no answer, as she sat and looked so sad, "maybe I will get answer if I go
and speak to dad"
Her father had a solemn look, his face was tired and drawn, he almost gave the impression
that his heart in two was torn.
"Father tell me what is wrong, why are these people here, you're really filling me dread,
an awfully frightening fear"
Once more she had no answers, her father never spoke, the torment was too painful, her
father's heart was broke.
A knock came upon the door, and everyone then froze, and from the chair where her mother
sat, to her feet she rose.
"Let me do this" her Father said, "please everyone just wait, there bringing home my
daughter, in a coffin through our gate"
Bewildered and confused the girl went to the door, there she saw a funeral hearse, with
wreaths upon the floor,
"Ok I must be dreaming, cause there is no way that I am dead, maybe It's concussion, No
wait, when did I bang my head?"
The Undertakers slowley walked, with the Coffin held on their shoulders, the Chief mourner
entered in the house, with funeral rites in folders.
"I am very sorry for your loss, we took good care with her, would you like the casket
opened up? we could do that for you Sir"
Her father nodded in response, he had to see her face, one last time before she leaves, to
her final resting place.
The Family began to gather, to give their last respects, one by one they passed by,
followed by their guests.
Who is in that coffin? she had no idea what to expect, but she would soon discover, it
was her turn in line next.
Nervously she stepped forward, as she bowed her head to see, "My God this can't be
happening, there's no way that corpse is me"
To be continued.... see part 2
Biden ...et al put him in the bullseye
but it didn't go quite as planned.
The old donkey has finally been laid to rest.
The Hyenas are cackling and seeing red.
It seems dementia is contagious after all.
Folks, this is all about the hobbling of America
"Fundamentally Transforming" her
into something less than what God planned...
but it is for all to see in the good book
if any dare to take a glance.
The gnawers are gnawing at the backbone of the middle class
replacing ten commandments with the devil's breath.
Opening borders (in the name of humanitarianism)
is really about giving away freebies in return
for flooding the ballot boxes in generations to come.
It worked with the black folks why couldn't it work with the brown folks.
L.B.J stated his true intentions (after signing the civil rights act)
by stating, "we've got the N****** vote for the next four hundred years".
We've lowered academic standards in the name of equality.
Before you go under, ask your anesthesiologist- your surgeon- your nurse
if they were a byproduct of (no child left behind) or were they an A student. Your life may depend upon it.
Folks, it's all about the globalist
-greenies and elitist making us dependent
upon those who are jealous of our success and hate us for it.
They wish for our complete destruction
nothing more nothing less.
It's about population control...
Bill Gates once openly contemplated
about the possibility of controlling population through vaccine...
remember covid 19?
Margarette Sangar (planned parenthood) and Gate's daddy were heavy into eugenics just like the Nazis.
Sangar opened the first centers in black neighborhoods to control population growth. It was never really about reproductive rights.
Our caretakers (both asses and elephants)
Have sold swaths of farmland to communist China.
Whose palm will your children be feeding from (oink oink).
I'm afraid our caretakers have become our undertakers.
Our founding fathers are boiling in their graves.
In nineteen eighteen there was an outbreak of flu
Caused little concern, only affected a few
But it returned with a vengeance later that year
And the world over it caused widespread fear.
First reported in Spain, and around the world spread
When it was over, fifty million people were dead
Hospitals were stretched and they struggled to cope
For both young and old, there wasn't much hope.
It affected the lungs and caused skin to turn blue
Only comfort was given it was all they could do
In effect it caused people to suffocate
And continued to spread at an alarming rate.
People advised to avoid crowds and to wear masks
They struggled to perform even basic daily tasks
Remote areas in the world were affected too
By this airborne killer virus, the great Spanish flu.
Effort's were made to slow down this disease
But slowly and surely it brought the world to its knees
Shops opening times were staggered all over the lands
People strongly advised not to shake hands.
Undertakers were struggling to cope with demands
Families' buried loved ones with their own hands
Healthy men and women and children too
Were all falling victim to the great Spanish flu.
Because of World War One, doctors were few
And those that were available, many fell sick too
Temporary hospital's set up in schools or church hall
With many brave volunteers answering the call.
They closed many schools, services were hit too
With workers struck down by this merciless flu
Late nineteen nineteen the virus reached its peak
Immunity grew stronger but it still struck the weak.
Sadly mankind had suffered and paid a great cost
To the great Spanish flu with millions of lives lost
The pandemic was now over, survivors started to thrive
But were mournful of the millions who did not survive.
Written 4th April 2018.
( Dedicated to the fifty million people who died
in the Spanish flu pandemic in the years 1918 to 1919. )
DIE THE DEATH!
(Dona eis requiem sempiternam)
Die the death and transcend vanity
O poor vernal flesh and bone,
Waned out of this primal valley
And sink like the moon beyond the coast.
All expectations, ‘tis the greatest
Reclined at the backdrop of the heart’s throb,
Relegated by mortal necessities in crest
Clouded by mist as the shrouding robe round a knob.
Farewell thee, to vanish from eyes.
Fear not, minds still shall keep thee
Though a while, less a bother to human plight,
The dire need for yen, companion and spree.
The undertakers trades fare supreme
And mourners sonorous rhymes are music prime;
Downing the lees of wine to spike faces grim
With throbbing drums, jigging feet and chime.
Great the awaited moment to close the eyes
And farewell the world with all her bother.
A descendance is paramount than to rise,
To die to live than live to die is best order.
Great ease is the last prize to pay
And refund the muck to its source beneath
Nothing else abide but merry mongers sway
Over nourished ordure, once a breath.
Why not sadness at the joyful tale of birth
And merriment at the woeful news of death?
Onward would be to the backyard of earth,
From incubi, toil and deformed breath.
Night veil drawn over our visibility,
In twinkle the pupil dilate a life span’s knell
Wedge in limbo, shrouded by mystery,
Knowledge only worms and flies can tell.
What need of life, fun, food or friendship?
All but a three episode script of dharma:
Ignorance precedes pain and then comes sorrow,
As circadian sculptor pruned our feature.
No mint can purchase back days gone by,
Neither riches to reverse a twinkle;
For a lifelong tie earn a profound sigh,
A spot on shoreline washed by sprinkles.
Poison, sickness, circadian effect and accident
Are final returns wherein all expectations lie.
Rather in life, in death is its fulfillment
And no further businesses have I but to die!
Every time I get happy
the Nana-Hex
comes through.
A dog's canines
change into chainsaws,
toothpicks turn into knives,
coral reefs diverge into dirty sponges,
a sandcastle into a mausoleum,
a soldier-ant burrows deeper
into my borrowed grave,
reveille trumpets tap
a tip-toed timpani of
disenchanted malevolence;
all for the Nana-Song.
I am eleven.
I am naked.
I am screaming.
I am kneeling in the shower
and every time I shriek:
"I feel like dancing today or
look, I can tie my shoelaces or
my bruises have healed or,
my neck is not scarlet like
the underskin of
Grandma's fingernails" -
it plays again, it reprises -
like a Bizet refrain
scraping pitchforks
against agate slabs,
shaving fresh flesh.
All for the resurrection of...!
All for the redemption of...!
the Nana-Hex.
Now, I am fifteen.
I don't talk. I fail to eat.
I scratch poetry and snivel.
My front teeth
are chipped and broken
like the high-browed brim
of Nana's low-ball snifter.
I picture four undertakers
from my windowsill.
Three of them are for me -
the fourth filthy fist,
clutching a scratched
chromed rung,
is for her.
Throwing confetti
from a guarded train
as she selfishly vacated me,
Dr. Zhivago evasive and...wait!
"look I've made my bed, dear Nana.
I lost another tooth, I received
an A+ in geometry.
No. I'm not part of one's family circus,
I'm not a crippled duckling
in a shooting gallery anymore."
Mom, Momma - I...
I can't catch her confetti, Mother.
I can't, poor Momma - but...
when her swastikad locomotive
bleeds into the
frozen chambers
of Auschwitz's
omnipresent shower heads,
and my stifled tears choke
your starved larynx
like a rabid cat
untangling balls
of matted string; then...
and only then -
dear God,
please tell Grandma Nana -
I've formidably said:
hello.
Past the Darling plateau, down yonder
Through the docile jarrah trees
Where the wildest flowers wander
To and fro adorns the breeze
And the quietest fields of daisies mourn
The bodies of those once scorned
Safe away on endless tether
Awaits the region of the nether
Out there they’ll take you by the hand
Led through fields of peaceful land
You for they and they for you
So come along, your time is through
Over any township shire
Away, away all you once scorned
Hear the distant beckoning lyre
Away, away awaits the dawn
No more hands to lead astray
No more eyes to judge away
No more petty, petty scorn
No more single-visioned minds
Come along, away, where acres
Judge thou not, and undertakers
Lead you and return in kind
Out there they’ll take you by the hand
Led through fields of peaceful land
You for they and they for you
So come along, your time is through
Way out past your lowest dreary
Lower than you’ve been before
Blissful drifting solemn weary
Resting there forever more
Ask not they pity, ask not they mourn
Ask not remembrance of those once scorned
Safe away on endless tether
Awaits the region of the nether
In your body, in your mind
Within those fields and in those behind
Out there they’ll take you by the hand
Led through fields of peaceful land
You for they and they for you
So come along, your time is through
Past the Darling plateau, down yonder
Through the docile jarrah trees
Sprawls the land of those once scorned
Where the wildest flowers never squander
Never judge to be appeased
And the quietest fields of daisies mourn
The bodies of those once scorned
Out there they’ll take you by the hand
Led through fields of peaceful land
You for they and they for you
So come along, your time is through
Look like
The main reason we bury people
is because of the shell decomposed
If time went backwards
Santa was a country
dancer
Would undertakers take bodies back
to a crying family
and pay them
for letting them drive their newly deceased around
If time went backwards would God loose the idea of creation
Cats could jump backwards really high
What would a frog pig look like
Permits me i to juice our intro
Does the last person
Automatically bee the best at everything
If there was
Clear holes are more dangerous
Clearly E
……….v
………i
……..d
……e
………….n
………………..t
Yours are chomping
I kinda wanna see the sun stop
Call a lab or berate
the missing
Poisoning our mushrooms
What kills hope
The hopeless do
I hop in hopelessness
Why is a gorgeous word
I meant let’s take the question
Every why is it’s own entity
What if it’s screamed WHY
has a tragedy happened
Or whispered over a hand
Why not y
Why not always it’s rebuttal
I mention submarines but subtlety
Y starts with a double you
quite quiet quitely quietly
See if you think about it
was everything an it until it was named
Here Samael got a job for
There is these nasty ers
I am gonna send
I know your a bit weird
You can do what you want to them
For how long-I will get back to you
Sorry sometimes I have plays during my poetry
God -played by me
Lucifer- also played by me
Music and original score-was produced by silence
Hanging a hammock between the letter Y
Looking at the sky never concerned with the
Like this I am no question
Using a Y like a catapult
It’s question only reaching so far
Why would you leave me
Why would you
Why am I hear
I never wondered
………\………../
…………\……/
…………..\…/
……………I
……………I
……………I