I sat at my dad's bedside as he squirmed and moaned in pain,
It hurt me to see him like that,
I prayed the whole night.
Then early hours of the morning
his countenance  changed,
He looked at peace,
Were my prayers answered?
Was my father recovering?
He smiled broadly looking at me lovingly,
"Dear the Angel Of Death has come,
HE says my place for breakfast at the table with God is ready,
It's  beautiful dear."
And breathed his last.
26/9/2019

There she goes

Girls file into line
Three by three
Knee length skirts

Down the aisle

Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine
Prayers morning, noon, and night
Careful now, They're prepared to smite

Up the Stairs

Now we dine
And then off to bed
One "lucky" girl gets to practice head

The tallest tower

She's had too much sacramental wine
Hands touched and caressed
And she felt far from blessed

Down she jumps

Touched by filthy swine
"what a horrible disaster"
Her eulogy given by that same pastor

The Devil moves on

In the linoleum dungeon
Sparkling swiffer creature
Squirts the floor
Calls polyphemic odors
Opening

And the crazy stench of allspice
Biting lime and draconian breath
Burning the nostril coins
Copper shield bending the cilia
Oven mitts plastered with narcotic grease and decomposing meals
Of yesteryear
Unclear
She speaks between steaming inspirations

Hoo-huh

Exhale the fire

It's'a hotta pasta lasagna
As the helicopters flap their handy rotories
Fast fractal birds
In circumfereferential motion
Cool down our mouths
Ice cubes in the juice
Plop a shot of gin
With that silly child's grin

And the room slowly cants
Begins to spin
As we laugh at the spots we cannot
Pin

Staring at the stellar mountain chains
Thrusted stone
Busted metal
Stabbing up into the sky
Competition

Where is the home beyond the horizon
Where we ate good meals
Not made alone
With parental guidance
As the days were stolen
By the erosive time
That spinning wheel

Well,

It's deep in us now
And the cells metastasized
Realized
That heaven is hell.

The leftovers are laying on the plate,
it’s almost Half past eight.
The Fork and knife knightley laid,
on the tablecloth casting a shade.

On the plate there has been left a trace,
of the food from a chinese take out place.
Beneath the table a red stiletto heel,
that is probably all he can feel.

Slowly raising the glass of wine,
it’s a die and dine.
Glairying on the silver reflection,
how about he is shown a little affection.

The black hair in his eyes.
He is a human so centralized.
But once he loses focus on what is happening,
he will feel his whole life blackening.