#funereal
As the morning sun cleared
the mist above the fields
harrowed with precision,
as cars hurried their servants
to serve,
as trains were running late,
and bakeries were busy,
a uniformed procession of capped men
and neatly trimmed women gathered
outside a tawny little church
in a sleepy little town
known for its irrelevance;
A serviceman expired here,
this last night of winter.
Whether from illness or old age,
gradually or
in a flash of chaos,
his mirror admits no more
the faces of those who shared his world,
and have now come to congress
and to remain
in the feasting sun of this first day of spring.
As blackbirds hush and tickle bush,
as more cars wiggle and park,
as naked trees pretend to still being naked,
crows flap around the tower that begins
a-belling,
and as pedestrians gaze after passing cars,
the mourners follow the bells into the church,
where they splash in thin silence
and scented air,
and stained glass admits the light of the world in,
as if through closed eyelids.
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 5:10 AM UTC
Textured flame,
the air of burning dark
softly ashes drip, melt
dusty ivory and haggard looks
lonely bones like stepping stones
encased they lay
an avenue of haloed ground
features burnt
sing of January's frozen shroud
stagger on
agony claim
faint, and frail
tempest paved
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 8:08 PM UTC
My teacher is always dressed for a funereal and smiles as she says the word devil. She teaches us about dead metaphors, dead words and she reads out loud from forgotten books written by long gone poets. I sometimes wonder how she sees the world. If it is filled with sadness. If it stays dull on an April noon. If everything is as black as her clothing and her dilated eyes. Those eyes that stare into the universe covered in black paint dripping onto the floor in a quiet classroom. Her life is kept at bay in a graveyard of literature.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
$ $ $
Because I hate money
as money hates me,
I will out-live my debt
and be buried for free.
My gravest desire:
die poor, with no coffin,
that Death may unharden
what Life could not soften.
Because money hates me
I sometimes hate God,
(though I never served Mammon)
so SHOVEL, you clod,
while I speak from the grave;
a cadaver with class:
come strew a few flowers
and cover my ***
(Or cover my assets
financially
so my corpse doesn’t lie
like a liability.)
Because money hates me
I’ll leave it to you
to savor my point of
funereal view.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC