Don't mourn a shallow grave if it's what I prefer
I want to feel winter as it cools the skin of the earth
So I can feel Lucifer churn my ground from his sorrow of going astray
To feel the pulsing of the sun, while no more a witness unto the day
"Shallow Grave" -JP
I'm sorry I'm not what you exPected me to be.
I'm sorry I'lL never babysit your kids when I'm frEe.
I'm sorry I couldn't help mom get through all of the hell
I'm sorry I left my responsibilities on the shelf
I'm sorry I'm cant function like a normal Adult
I'm sorry we had to put you in the ground where it'S cold
I'm sorry you were murdered whEn it should have been me
I'm sorry you died with so much left to see
I'm sorry that I'm crying while I'm writing tHis
I'm sorry that my apologies make such a big list.
I'm sorry I'm going to be a burdEn to the world
I'm sorry that our mom had to lose her baby girl
I'm sorry I'm so hatefuL every single day
I'm sorry I can't smile in a genuine way
I'm sorry I can't helP anyone that needs it
I'm sorry that I'm going crazy even if I don't believe it
I'm sorry I let my hate grow so big when I know it would make you sad
I'm sorry I let my outlook on life get this fucking bad
I'm sorry I stay up late and forget to get rest
I'm sorry that on every holiday I'm a graveside guest
I'm sorry I have to say all this in the first place
I'm sorry that I'll never get to say it to your face.
I'm sorry you died and I'm still here
I'm sorry that the thought of living makes me shed a tear.
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of sex with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for sex with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The Negro of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The Negro bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
Wench, clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Were the scattered emptiness
Of the memories
On the shores
She left the three parties of us
And our traveler friend
They were play things for sunset fares,
They were happy to be here
The young flowers now scattered about
This beach shore
Too young to be plucked
Happy to grow up into one party of laughter!
That's how we remember they were here
That's how to plant graveside flowers
For the dead
They were play things for sunset fares
They were not soldiers
They were unprotected women
They were not warriors
They were unfed afraid Biafran children
That's how to plant graveside flowers
That's how we have kept them forever
In our hearts
That's how we actualize Biafra.
And so here today I say goodbye
at your graveside in the rain
all the mourners they have gone now
its just you and me again
The scars of your sudden passing
no-one will ever see
like a thousand shards of glass
driven deep inside of me
The only evidence of you being here
is the unmade bed you left behind
And memories of the love we made
and of our bodies intertwined
So many things will go unsaid
so many dreams go unfulfilled
So many rooms are darker now
That you lights not there to fill
My world is much more empty now
without your gentle grace
As I close my eye's the tears come
at the memory of your face
I wish I could have been there
to be with you at the end
To cradle you within my arms
my lover and my friend.
Our time together was our secret
and one that will be kept
None will ever know the "other man"
at your graveside stood and wept.
I knew time stood still but it flew faster away and off into the wide of that terrible day.
At the graveside they cried and I watched as
bereft and bemused,confused by the sounds that came silently to me and observing surroundings so new, and so clearly my focus became
Someone called me by name,someone stood in the doorway framed by the light which shone as bright as the sun,and to look back on it all just did not occur to me,as time flew it freed me into that which could not bleed me any more.
In the door was my loved ones,memories gone and not gone and I found they live on,and this terrible day did not seem so sad.
Though I lost I didn't lose,to choose and not be chosen when the warm blood stops flowing like the ice bound we are frozen
and yet we are freed.
At the graveside they needed some solace
I can't turn back to face them and so I place them in a memory,knowing they will remember me and I will live on.
At the wake they raise a glass and the sadness, it will pass as all things we know will,
for each and everyone time eventually stands still and flies so quickly away.
The brain freeze of
mundane ordinary life squish.
the mellow death of everything
hopeful, mischievous, quizzical
remembered only at a sad graveside funeral
in the back of the trailer-park of your brain.