"morgue" poems
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb
Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life
Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.
The blood flood is the flood of love,
The absolute sacrifice.
It means: no more idols but me,
Me and you.
So, in their sulfur loveliness, in their smiles
These mannequins lean tonight
In Munich, morgue between Paris and Rome,
Naked and bald in their furs,
Orange lollies on silver sticks,
Intolerable, without mind.
The snow drops its pieces of darkness,
Nobody's about. In the hotels
Hands will be opening doors and setting
Down shoes for a polish of carbon
Into which broad toes will go tomorrow.
O the domesticity of these windows,
The baby lace, the green-leaved confectionery,
The thick Germans slumbering in their bottomless Stolz.
And the black phones on hooks
Glittering
Glittering and digesting
Voicelessness. The snow has no voice.
28 January 1963
20.6k
A sunflower grows
"tall and simple".
And so does a cancer
small and simple.
Holes grow larger
around me.
A field of sunflowers
and headstones.
The power of recovery and discovery;
the kick of a pen
during unconscious behavior.
Chatty beats taking control
of the morgue.
Not letting the rivers in--
only the shivers.
Chatty beats taking the liver,
putting it in a living corpse.
Chatty beats opening the door in the clouds.
That's but a bedtime story that's
read to the youth and
told as the truth.
Hypnotize so I can't criticize,
stick my face in the water
and show me the baby otters I loved
from my childhood bedtime stories.
The glories of floating
on my back into a
brand new habitat
filled with sunflowers
"tall and simple"
and holes growing larger
to keep me warm and breathing
under the water.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
Dear Mentor Hyde:
Upon the morgue room table he looked like he had some Frankenstein fame
Like a two sided ten thousand piece puzzle, we started with his fragile frame
Racing to find the four corners I found three shaped, kinda like the same
Good, now he knows, when were done today we will win this insane game
On a first name basis I want to know them all, and by it their first name
Witnessing weeping children gets me every time I get all sensitive like a dame
It makes me happy to know I’m tucking you in and you’re not going to the flame
Sewing him back together he couldn’t move for he had a case of being lame
When he comes back to life he will forever be our friend and also be very tame
From far off distance places they all will come and from far they all came
Looking to see how we done, I’ll admit it for I have no shame
If anything goes wrong, look to me and I will take the total blame.
Sincerely,
Dr. Jackal
(SirCARSr 2-3-13)
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
Amadou awakened with a start, it was Omar one of the guardians(security guards) of Yaldagou (the largest Hospital in the capital of Burkina Faso) knocking on the window of his taxi, Amadou had just settled down for the night after a long day in the heat and fumes that was Ouagadougou it was just after midnight on Sunday, he struggled to wake up rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Omar explained in Mori(local language), that there were two white people in need of his special service.
After a quick explanation that someone had died in a private clinic nearby and the body needed to be transported to the morgue at Yaldagou, he snapped out of his sleepiness and thought for a moment how much he could charge the rich white people, it was two days after Eid and as a strict Muslim he had been celebrating the holidays and now he had been offered an opportunity to supplement his taxi income, someone had to do it and it was an unsavory job and anyway on the few occasions he had done it, it had been lucrative, it might as well be him!
Amadou thought to himself, if you had the misfortune to die in the day time there was a private service but in the night dignity went out the window and it was up to people like Amadou and a select bunch of taxi drivers with seats that could be configured to accommodate the corpses of the recently deceased to perform this service, so taxi 87 driven by Amadou would take this lady who had died from kidney and other ***** failures, after struggling for some days she eventually lost her battle and slipped into unconsciousness and finally died.
Amadou finally settled on 10000 CFA(local currency) a fair price, after all the so-called professionals would charge 30000 CFA three times more and it was around Eid "Allah Akbar".
A quick "Thank you" to Omar for helping them and the two white people left with him for the short journey to the clinic, after the usual discussions the body was released and transported to the morgue to join the other recently deceased waiting for burial in the morning,
Amadou, rearranged the seating in his taxi after parking up in his favourite place under the trees of Yaldago it was just after one thirty, a good ninety mins work he thought to himself, yawned, and settled down to sleep a few more hours before dawn prayers.
This was Africa and "someone had to do it" was his last thought.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC
in the morgue
name tag tied to big toe
the autopsy
naked to the bone
you may let out a last moan
but that will be death, making itself heard
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC
Deeming that I were better dead,
"How shall I **** myself?" I said.
Thus mooning by the river Seine
I sought extinction without pain,
When on a bridge I saw a flash
Of lingerie and heard a splash . . .
So as I am a swimmer stout
I plunged and pulled the poor wretch out.
The female that I saved? Ah yes,
To yield the Morgue of one corpse the less,
Apart from all heroic action,
Gave me a moral satisfaction.
was she an old and withered hag,
Too tired of life to long to lag?
Ah no, she was so young and fair
I fell in love with her right there.
And when she took me to her attic
Her gratitude was most emphatic.
A sweet and simple girl she proved,
Distraught because the man she loved
In battle his life-blood had shed . . .
So I, too, told her of my dead,
The girl who in a garret grey
Had coughed and coughed her life away.
Thus as we sought our griefs to smother,
With kisses we consoled each other . . .
And there's the ending of my story;
It wasn't grim, it wasn't gory.
For comforted were hearts forlorn,
And from black sorrow joy was born:
So may our dead dears be forgiving,
And bless the rapture of the living.
3.4k
when i first met you i was shy and still wore
pink and had an uncanny obsession with
sweaters and you had smiled at me so warmly that
i couldn't help but have smiled back because
you looked so happy
//
when i first realized i was in love with you it was
a warm july sun and a humid air and you were
laughing as i rambled on about a book
that i can't remember the title of but
god, i had never thought that people could look beautiful
under the horizon because the sky was too distracting
but on that particular day, i'm sure the horizon was jealous
of how light your hazel eyes looked and how deep your dimples were
i laid awake that night, thinking about your smile
and how happy it made me, and how terribly bittersweet
this was going to be
//
when i look at you know, i do not see the sun-kissed
boy with laughter in his eyes and a permanent smile on
his cheeks, i see a shadow of the boy i used to love and
sometimes i wonder if i should care at all that you're sad, because
you never seem to care when i am, though i suppose that is what
love is itself, loving somebody so unconditionally that
even when they laugh and mock you, you would still cry with them
the very next day
//
although then again, i'm sure you don't know what love is
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
Cassie and Lia
Or Ana and Mia?
I don't know who we are anymore
Best friends or competitors?
Both fighting for a place at the morgue
As the first snow falls,
Our blood intermingles
In a pact to be the skinniest of them all
And no one else can see
That we're stuck in a blizzard
Doing anything for beauty
Icy veins and frozen hearts
Numbers shrinking on the scale
Metallic blades leaving scars
Pretty pills and bathroom stalls,
Diet coke and working out,
This is all that we are
We used to be innocent Cassie and Lia,
But when I look in the mirror
I only see Ana and Mia
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
I never drove by that was the ***** way,
half time trying to hit a wet spot blind.
or killing the time of those who were never
meant to fall...
Got honor between the lines, I'll stop the car,
open the door, walk out suited
not you average gangster, look like the others
and no one running till I pulls out your
friend it anit here for a meet and greet.
More like say hello to, goodbye...
you bleeding on the floor, I'm a good shot...
One to the chest, you fell now one to the head,
you aint paid you bills now your blood
stained in the wind.
Casually walking back to the car signing
autographs of his followers.
This meet and greets been productive,
Family signing you off on the morgue...
I aint going to lie the only necktie I be
tightening is yours...
Tied to a chair, if I need information,
asking as politely with a ball hammer
and some pliers...
I had a few mouths shout off,
now they walk the street silently,
never **** disrespect.
Show what silence sounds like,
respect is fear
and I'm the scarecrow in the
field.
And you crows,
you worm eaters ain't seen nothing yet..
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 6:49 PM UTC
my silence is burrowed in these bones, my bones
let me go alone into the catacombs let me breathe the heart of this impenetrable darkness
I swear to god I never meant to hurt you
outside, on your doorstep I am worn out
sick and tired, and so on
these cave walls hover on my ribs I will never make you understand how the music
of this death march haunts me in my empty chest I am filled with the waning moon
the song of our sorrow overflows me my bones, my bones,
weaved within the stone floors our bones, your bones stacked against the walls
let me go alone into this hollowed darkness this
hallowed ground
in the dead of night this void shudders in my bones, my bones
I swear I’m dying I swear to god the cavern of this morgue is
my only home
let me go gentle into this good night
this holy unborn chaos under cover of darkness our world is small and scarred
someday I swear I will be still my shaking hands
will settle in these bones, these bones, let me die among the dead
under cover of darkness this new world washes over me the water of my veins
will flood this empty sky
there are thrones in the corners of this room and we turn away
(the underworld is not in flames it is drowned
in this cold breathing earth) there are thrones
in the corners of this room, and they
are empty
let me go alone into this heart of darkness, when I fall upon this floor my soul
will dance on torch lit walls my heart runs cold across this sacred stone
let the pure unsettled darkness strike in me that kind of hollow
I am trying to build a home here, these bones, my bones
the music of our heavy mouths drifts upward to the sky
I am a tragedy, for the last time
we will lose our senses underground and we will thank god
as my eyes fall wide on these hollow walls I am more at home than I have ever been
let this open earth bite me to my core
as my chest is bared before this empty sky I will not rage against the dying of the light
I am worn out
sick and tired
the chorus of our footsteps echoes on my bones, our bones, my bones
melted in this torch light we are dying
sacred
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
I don't cry a lot, or at all for that matter.
I've fooled myself into thinking strength, isn't comforted by weakness.
Truth is, weakness is the builder of strength.
I find that so contradictory, because what breaks me, tears me up and what strengthens me, builds my character up.
No one decides, which is which.
We have feminists arguing on behalf of the woman, dictating and reasoning for emotional expressions, but society judges being make and falling.
Being a man, is a matter of endurance through hardships, breaking sweats, but never breaking a tear, because water works shouldn't work on male species, because feeling, isn't in our nature, says society.
So, we aimlessly tear through the jungle, hunting for what we don't know, looking for a next meal, never being content, because, contentment is not part of our nature, says society.
With private parts being made public, we move through the next with being hesitant, by the time she realizes, she's already been ******
Break hearts, play hearts and acting like we have hearts. That's society's perception of the male species.
Society never talks about, the clean up crew.
Society, never speaks about me.
Society never speaks about my ****** hands with cuts of your broken heart, and with missing body parts try to bring aid to your heart.
Society never speaks about trying to make you understand how I'm different, and with countless bouquets, it's never okay to let me in because you let him in, and from the ******* he left like you were nothing, and now that you have something, you won't let me in.
He penetrated your skin, and I'm not fascinated by it, I was see your soul unmasked to mine, so I explore your soul before your body, and these steps I take on hot coal, because he didn't care so much so that the cuts burn.
Your soul is almost like a morgue, I swear it's like your heart has been cremated, with an invite to your funeral, I hope you spread your ashes on my heart, so once again you can feel something whole, again.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC
There is a line
between
pain and
pleasure.
But when that line blurs-
When the pleasure overthrows
your inhibitions
and the pain numbs your body,
When pain becomes pleasure
and pleasure becomes pain,
how do you know when to stop.
I glorify it.
I crave the taste
of the sickness.
of the disease rippling across my skin,
boiling in my veins
and flowing through my blood.
Is it Healthy?
I love you,
I love it,
but is it healthy
To walk the streets at night
in constant fear
not only of what lurks in the shadows
but of you too.
Anorexic bodies
falling all around us.
Mine included.
Skinnier by the day,
yellow nails chipping and peeling,
grinding of the teeth
to procure a never ending headache.
Pale skin;
cold to the touch
from lack of circulation.
Weak in your arms
an intoxicated mind
and a heart struck through with daggers.
Blasting screams
and beats
to block out the world
and create a throbbing in our heads.
Your freak show;
My guilty little pleasure.
So sick
So satanic
So tenebrific
So twisted
so disturbed
so disgusting
so beautiful
so broken.
cradled by poison,
hold me in your arms,
a monster in the shadows
with thanatognomonic eyes.
With my thanatophobia
You manage to keep me alive.
You do it to feel the pain,
as a confirmation that you're still alive,
But I do it to feel nothing,
to feel all this pain
all these repressed emotions
disappear.
Overall we do it to stay alive,
and shred away
our pitiful sorrows
one by one,
piece by piece.
For inch by inch
we come closer
to meeting the same
fate
of our cold,
useless,
easily forgotten bodies
lying on a metal slab.
Soon to be greeted
by the maltreated Earth.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
If I were to say;
the devil & god both
rage within,
I would render myself
dishonest.
For despite blind faith
you have never heard
me surrender,
to the devil or god.
The agnostic in me
did surrender, to a name
still unknown.
An internal war
battles of wills I so fought
pleading & praying;
*save me from what I have
so become.*
A war rages within
thirsty blood red, slaughter
a house for the dead.
I fall at your feet, lick the blood
splashed & spilled;
a slaughterhouse will never
be a clean resting place.
I kneel; genuflect
at the
shrine of gods
& monsters.
I whisper;
*What will be?
What will become of me?*
Laughing, spitting,
in the face of anguished despair.
A war rages within.
Nor devil nor god may see,
I am yours for slaughter,
surrendered for you
in this wasteland
my mind created when
you
were first
gone.
© Sia Jane
"I’ll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me."
Wishbone by Richard Siken
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
"I'll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting..."
Richard Siken
You set my soul on fire
pouring gasoline over
every inch of the skin
I inhabit daily
You set my soul on fire
knowing how much it
would burn, leaving
deep everlasting scars
You set my soul on fire
excruciatingly ripping
a person I love so
knowing the pain you'd cause
You set my soul on fire
your face ablaze with
an unspoken contentment
at claiming what you believe is yours
I sit here and mourn
my heart misshaped from the norm
I sit here and weep
at how trampled I was by your feet
I sit here with anger
knowing where to point the finger
twist it round,
with your well rehearsed stirs
that damage, disintegrate and curse
© Sia Jane
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
a liar once told me that i write good poetry
i laughed and continued drinking,
the sudden rush of despair, the wicked beast, the dry pages
the man had no credentials
but he persisted, declaring me an inspiration
like seeing a strand of hair attract a magnet
or amber jewels lolling in a dimly lit case
imagination is a felony, i wagered as i poured another
a combustion i know like the back of my hands
i told him i dreamt of a morgue where everyone i ever loved
sat upright as sunflowers, declaring their love for the sun
and of a newspaper rife with disease and the passion of a janitor
there is a raccoon near a river somewhere cleaning an apple
with a heart as big as an artist in drunken euphoria
taking better care of it than me when i sit down at a typewriter
it's wearing a cape just like edgar allen poe
and having better conversation with an oak tree than i've ever had at a party
about the sunday crossword puzzle he completed
yesterday i drank myself into a masquerade ball
arriving in a limousine being driven by a bearded mickey mantle
i was the guest of honor, sword fighting on table tops
and lecturing the guests about shakespeare through a garbage disposal
while a horse played backgammon with my father's brother
and there was a girl there behind the facade of an owl
who danced like the wind and everlasting light
and no one could stop her or look her in the eye
i am the only connection between my mind and the paper
merely a vessel, a john boat clearly breaching it's depth
either drowning like a fish in a sand dune or
being bounced like a baby on the knee of god
slavery, i call it, and hand him a glass of warm bourbon
as the splashing of my journal pages slap my crushed trachea
the typewriter is padlocked and painted over with cement
the metamorphosis trapped inside a bullet, boiling with sheer fury
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
He hates daylight with sense of a mole,
He has curtains all over his chambers, to preserve
His heart nocturnal, where he derives joy
As he does glory from his night shift
As a mortician at the city morgue,
Where I was deadly drunk one night,
And fallaciously declared dead by a nurse
And got dumped into this domain of the AG
Fellow drunkards who became sober to cry
For help out of the morgue, the AG clubbed
Them lethally to final death, forget of drunkardness
Another sick person un-convulsed back to life
He thrashed his skull with a menacing club,
Only two strong hits sent the misfortunate man
Back a really rigor mortis, finally dead,
I chose not to breathes loudly till dawn
When the dayshift mortician came on duty
I pleaded for his favour and sympathy,
He culled me out of death, I went home
Running swearing to myself never to drink again!
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 7:44 AM UTC
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
struggles to intubate a cat.
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
practitioners are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
the sternum sore.
Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.
Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.
The flip of the coin. The thin line. The blessing or the curse.
The absolute darkness of a body bag. The cold chill of absolute zero.
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.
The eleventh hour,
isn’t that what it’s called?
We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.
We have to, but it won’t register.
After a loss, after a trauma,
we are on autopilot.
I think of my mother,
six feet beneath frozen soil in
a pink padded casket and think:
I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.
Putrefied flesh. Bones visible. Muscles eaten. Tissues disintegrated.
We don’t talk about it.
We try to think the opposite. The positive vs the negative.
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)
I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.
I couldn’t do these things.
My hands tend to break what they touch.
The glass bowl in the pet store.
The clay project in art class.
The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
good at trauma.
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 2:47 AM UTC
She
so___- she
And__ He__ so
Never ending
She Comma
Do-So
Shop to Soho
Electronics
Like a Saint
Satanic's
His or hers
Nic's and Pix
Never the end
If so_______
Yes Sir
The math flame
Password
To end the
dating game
Hot green
tip
pistachios
Like the long sentence_____,
Your
Nephews
He was
Huh? ,
So compelled
to be sentenced
The time
treacherous
Was so long
At that end is
where
you
belong
Column
his
comma
She comma
Prima Donna
Oh! Donna
A love
should
be in
the
moment
Too
many
Dots?plots/whatnots
You forgot
semicolumn
The head page
Semi-sweet
column
End chair
Kingdom
Knock on wood
Getting
splinters
He used
Plastic
condoms
Braveheart Lion
Twisted sisters
I was
at the
very end
Wella
She -Comma____
The money
Higher up
Society Brianna
Barcelona Cafes
Giraffe ladies
boisterous
drama
Begin now
The beginning
Never met her
middle-section
Which breed?
She-comma
She could
make
Anyone's
bad heart
Drug fix well
The good
heart
Should be ended
Dead end____&
the
morgue
Her long tongue
All She__ Rouge
The question mark
All parts dots here and?
What is
next!!!
You hear
the ring you jump
Off the cliff
the text
Meet me
greet him
Chances
are
never
The front
It was
a front
Fine print
you
could
see
Smitten
written deed
And
left her
money
Heavenly
bliss
This
paper
kiss
Did you
miss
Her
signature,
Never a
good gesture
She-devil
Comma,
Never good
ending
movie
Feature
Never ending
Please visit
and come back
Do I need your opinion?
.,, ... ??
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
How come with all the brilliant thoroughbreds
That stand strong and ready at the starting gates
Those glorious, shiny coats gleaming in the sun
Do I keep on beating dead horses?
Instead of placing my bets on the alive and thriving?
Don't I want to finally engage in the race?
Don't I want to to keep my eyes on the winning prize?
For a dead and decaying horse,
With flies swarming about its lifeless carcass
Just ain't gonna move
Dead horse beating is a ludicrous hobby
It is more futile than leading a thirsty horse to water that just won't drink
That whip, in hand, just needs to be surrendered, put down on the ground
As well as finally releasing, letting go, on the pulling of those reins
So that horse can finally have a proper burial
Be finally laid to rest
In my dictionary
Dead horse (a noun) = people, places, or things of decay that should be out of your life
Dead horse beating (a verb) = from your thoughts to your actions, trying to revive a lost cause
Dead horse (synonoms) = bad relationships/friendships/acquaintances {that are of the morgue}
Anything that is counterproductive to your life
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 1:53 PM UTC
We had a really fat bird in the morgue last week;
We had to put two tables together
Just to accommodate her bloated mass
And the funeral director said
She'd need a specially reinforced coffin
And a flatbed truck instead of a hearse.
By the way, I think I should debunk
That legend about fat chicks appreciating it more;
She just lay there, like all of the others,
No sign of gratitude what-so-fucking-ever.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
Sana pwede akong patulugin at paganahing kumain ng inyong mga at least.
At least hindi sila naparis sa mga nawala na lang sukat.
At least di sila nakitang palutang lutang sa ilalim ng Jones Bridge.
At least hindi ko na kailangang halughugin ang mga gusgusing morgue
makita lang sila.
At least buhay sila-
nakakulong nga lang,
may kaunting pasa sa tadyang.
Sa totoo lang,
nakakabingi ang inyong mga at least.
Wala itong silbi sa akin sa kasalukuyan.
Parang gabundok na labahing poproblemahin.
Parang lukot na polo na makikita ko sa salamin.
Parang masikip na brief at basang medyas.
It *****
Hinuhubad nito lahat ng panatag na larawan sa aking isip.
Ginugulo nito ang relasyon ng subject at predicate sa aking mga pangungusap.
It really *****
Bakit naman kaya ako makukuntentong-
at least buhay sila?
Eh, sa ganitong bansang
ang mga namumuno’y tila 3 for 50 na DVDng ibenebenta sa Raon-
sino ba dapat ang nakakulong?
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
Wrinkled lips leak twisted tales in your chiseled space between realities
The kids all listen to your great advice
Heeding your misanthropic words and singing your praises
*"How right and noble it is to feel so glum and strive to strike down smiles with the tongue
Ma looks on as the children skin Pa to the bone
Better to receive than to give"*
They scream in monotone
I sit back and watch transfixed as this transpires
Thinking on my unforgiven sins and sipping your elixir
Koolaid from the kitchen served in unwashed broken dishes
My only desire is for you to finish spinning your stories
**The lies pour forth from the intestines of a sick piglet holed up in the morgue
You couldn't be real to save your life**
Your dead eyes drip crocodile tears into my glass
I watch it mix slowly and think out loud:
"You reside in Florida so I guess its appropriate"
But every puddle has it's bottom and your breath is wasted sobbing
When you're sinking just to try and float
So if you'll shut the hell up I'll be much more than happy to slit your ******* throat
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
A drowned beer-hauler was hoisted on the table.
Someone had taken a dark-bright-purple aster
and clamped it in his teeth.
As I cut outward from his breast
under the skin
with a long blade
and removed the tongue and palate,
I must have touched the flower—
she slid into the brain which lay nearby.
I packed her in the cavity in his chest
amid the straw stuffings
as he was sewn up.
Drink yourself full in your vase!
Rest softly,
little aster!
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 6:28 PM UTC
and we asked you for help
and you laughed at the candor
and we dropped dead like flies.
****** t-shirts falling from
clothing lines as clothing pins
litter the floor of the morgue
and parents pick out caskets
ten sizes too small, for dead
babies and children of the
night, the ones who had been hanging
from street lights and shooting stars,
who asked for help in the form
of loud music, slow dancing,
painting in dark colors, tying
red balloons to doorknobs,
and leaving home without layers.
these children, they’re wearing t-shirts
in late december and you’re
wondering why they’re shivering.
in the mean time, you turn your cheek
and lift the zipper of your fur coats.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC