I drink and I drink until plastered.
For drinking is one art I've mastered.
It takes all my dough
To stay this drunk though,
So buy me a drink you cheap *******.

your demons drive an interest in my soul
i crave more of you

Miles of dusty polished marble
In half lit carpeted corridors
Of abigails and millers
Furnished lobbies that
Pipe down in soft tones
For absent auris
And present shells

Sometimes what is
and what would have been
or what will be
slips
Through your fingers and
possibilities and moments
that never were
or won't be again
flicker through
single frames on a
film reel
and if you could see all the frames
At once
you would be God

We are here to remember a woman. For indeed. She was one of those. A woman so vile. So repulsive. We remember her today because we are glad she is dead; for certainly, she may have become the next Idi Amin; for she wore a similar countenance, a hideous sneer permanently grimacing upon her wicked face. Also her love of torture. I recall the other day, when her black steps still cursed our earth, her slapping a cup of change from a homeless man’s hands while a nerve grating cackle escaped from her lips. She screamed into his face, him very frightened, her quite drunk, “Get a job you worthless Jew!”

On top of being a wicked ice queen who was a fan of Aaron Carter, this rotten corpse;  who will more than likely sour the soil here and create a pet cemetery effect on the other corpses, was an insatiable ****. She was the female Wilt Chamberlain. She will add one more to her long list after this service, when the gravedigger defiles her body for the last time, but really, he is the one who will be defiled and I feel sorry for the poor corpse ****** autistic mute who shall soon insert his semi-flaccid member into our not-so dearly departed. His **** will probably fall off.

How unlovable this creature. Quickly now. Help me grab her legs and heave-** her into the woods to be torn apart by the beasts she resembled, body and soul. If indeed she possessed a soul. Who can say? If she did, console yourselves in the fact she is gargling on gallons demon ***** at this very moment.  Her suffering will be legendary, as was assured to me by the Hell raiser himself in a dream I had.

Her death was a brutal one. And ******. Good riddance. Thank you to mortuary affairs for providing a closed casket. The smell was overwhelming. Especially when she was alive.

She leaves behind not just a cheering crowd of happy people, but a child, who now an orphan, will be put to the workshops immediately. Sewing Nike swooshes onto LeBron James limited edition pumps in the triangle shirtwaist factory. Which our society has deemed appropriate for soot covered orphans and their small hands.

Of course. None of these terrible things are true. The deep love I feel for this woman is only matched by the loss I feel at her passing. She was beautiful in life, generous and giving, she expected nothing in return for her many kindnesses. She loved to experience life, and I loved experiencing it with her. I enjoyed every minute I was lucky enough to spend with her.
Certainly, she was a magical girl. Colors will dim, Sounds will be muted, and the world itself is lessened. Goodbye my love for the last time. Rest easy draped in your silken clothing, forever underneath the shades of mountain wildflowers.

Robert E. Howard — 'All fled—all done, so lift me on the pyre—The Feast is over, and the lamps expire.'

William Butler Yeats’ epitaph:
Cast a cold eye
On life, On death
Horseman, pass by!

So light
I brushed the drops away
With a wave.    
But long enough
To soak the earth
And fallen timber.                
I balanced on precariously
Traversing effervescent deluge
Losing purchase
And contemplating a sanguine palm.
Empathy swells the waves
That wash from each other.

We sat on the floor
Of the antique shop
Thumbing through a large box
Of old postcards
Some of them have writing
and were mailed a long time ago
You buy only one
It's a faded love letter
With a line
"I love you in the same old way"