A LUCKY SO & SO
As he lay
in the pool of his death
the motorcycle continuing on
a little further without him
before it too
lay down
as if to sleep
he thought the blood
was like a child
wetting the bed
and the fear of
someone discovering it
in the cold light
of morning
he began
to cry
just like the boy
of then
though this was now
and very far
from the place
of his childhood
even as the stink
of petrol
enveloped him
a bird sang
& he thought: “This is the most
beautiful thing...! ” he had ever heard
& his heart grew sad
& silent to hear it
concentrating on it
& on his shirt
emerged a badly-
-drawn map of the world
(but recognisable as such)
(America being a little
lopsided)
drawn in blood
seeping through his fingers
(continental drift slowly joining them together)
“I am half in love
with easeful Death...”
he quoted to himself
and wondered who had wrote it
and where he had ever heard it
“Yeats? Keats? ”
Death as if
anyone might have imagined him
turning up
at a fancy dress party
and only coming second
to a fat guy from Hastings
who obviously had a better costumiers
than Death
(Death thinking this fat bloke’s next)
looked on
dispassionately
as if he had seen it
all before.
There was nothing
new under the sun.
This job could be
so boring.
Humans make such a drama
out of the simple act of dying.
Always the same song & dance act!
Death held his hand
& then...let go.
When he awoke
Death
was nowhere to be seen
and the hospital
bloomed around him
gazing into the fluorescent
tube of light
life seemed almost
too bright
hurting his eyes
a nice pair
of legs
approaching him
& telling him
(he watched the words rise & fall
in the perfect mechanism
of her chest
of which he couldn’t take his eyes off of)
telling him
in no uncertain manner
as if scolding him
(had he wet the bed?)
“Well, you’re
a lucky
so & so!"
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:52 AM UTC
A LUCKY SO & SO
As he lay
in the pool of his death
the motorcycle continuing on
a little further without him
before it too
lay down
as if to sleep
he thought the blood
was like a child
wetting the bed
and the fear of
someone discovering it
in the cold light
of morning
he began
to cry
just like the boy
of then
though this was now
and very far
from the place
of his childhood
even as the stink
of petrol
enveloped him
a bird sang
& he thought: “This is the most
beautiful thing...! ” he had ever heard
& his heart grew sad
& silent to hear it
concentrating on it
& on his shirt
emerged a badly-
-drawn map of the world
(but recognisable as such)
(America being a little
lopsided)
drawn in blood
seeping through his fingers
(continental drift slowly joining them together)
“I am half in love
with easeful Death...”
he quoted to himself
and wondered who had wrote it
and where he had ever heard it
“Yeats? Keats? ”
Death as if
anyone might have imagined him
turning up
at a fancy dress party
and only coming second
to a fat guy from Hastings
who obviously had a better costumiers
than Death
(Death thinking this fat bloke’s next)
looked on
dispassionately
as if he had seen it
all before.
There was nothing
new under the sun.
This job could be
so boring.
Humans make such a drama
out of the simple act of dying.
Always the same song & dance act!
Death held his hand
& then...let go.
When he awoke
Death
was nowhere to be seen
and the hospital
bloomed around him
gazing into the fluorescent
tube of light
life seemed almost
too bright
hurting his eyes
a nice pair
of legs
approaching him
& telling him
(he watched the words rise & fall
in the perfect mechanism
of her chest
of which he couldn’t take his eyes off of)
telling him
in no uncertain manner
as if scolding him
(had he wet the bed?)
“Well, you’re
a lucky
so & so!"
