"morticians" poems
beauticians say
that we shouldn't sleep in our make up
but one day we'll be sleeping forever
and then
morticians will say
makeup is what we need
for our eternal sleep
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
My mom
Tells me I'm a gift.
She says love
Is what keeps the atoms
In you and I
Is the moment
She caught my
Father's eye
Is the day
My grandfather died
With a candy kiss on his cheek
She had never tasted something so sweet.
When we were little
We played kickball,
The ground is lava
And hide-and-go-seek.
As I grew I knew most days,
It was harder to find myself;
Let alone somebody else.
And I have been around
Enough center city playgrounds
To see the rich
Pump every bit of spare change
In their veins fighting
A cancer that they
Never learned to put in their past.
To see the poor
Wage wars with themselves
Trying to pick up
Way too much,
Way too fast;
Nobody really knows how to make love last.
So put your prism your heart
Beneath the moonlight.
Refract the wavelengths
Of your wonders
Into ROYGB-eautiful like the sea,
It took a lot of jellyfish to let
people see through me.
And even more mirrors
To find a place I was comfortable
Praying in.
Fraying in doorways
Where I learned hope,
Is looking both ways
On a one way street
Cause it can be so easy to thank God
While you still have bread to eat.
I have never prayed
So hard for a healthy meal
Than the days I remember
The heart is a muscle;
And sometimes the only
Thing we need
Is to "work it out."
And I know that some days,
My doubt hangs my
Smile like Jesus Christ
I never quite learned
How to bleed right.
But if there's one thing
I found from cleaning
The crosses out of the
Empty hallway of my character
Is that you haven't experienced loss
Until you've held two outstretched arms
For years waiting for your innocence to come back.
Nothing, weighs more than the guilt of your past
And nothing throws punches
Faster than the ghost of who you used to be.
And I know it's hard
To stop looking for yourself
Under every bed you
Left nightmares in
And I know it's hard
To be comfortable
In your own skin
But sometimes bars
Aren’t the only thing
That builds a cage
And sometimes
The only way to live
With yourself
Is to stop digging
Your own grave.
You can spend years
Listening to morticians
And never get grounded.
Surrounded by the
Square roots we all share,
By the same air,
We've all got to learn to let go.
To learn that
Holding your breath
Has never been how
Living things
Learn to
Grow
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
Along a narrow, vacant street at 2 a.m.
Underneath the threatening lights of peril
An act of ******** was taking place between
A beautiful cigarette and the orifice of my lips
Halloween had not yet dawned upon us
Yet as I walk Jack-O-Lanterns smile at me
Displaying minor quakes of bloodthirsty evil
While a serum of scorn soaks my tongue
With a heartless trick of ice, cold malice
Summoning the entire town to its kneecaps
Devils regurgitate lullabies resembling the sound
Of nails ****** a chalkboard sparing no mercy
Arousing the hopeless romantics
To awaken a graveyard
And **** the corpses until they're
Resurrected from their comas
As the nymphomaniacs ice
Their frozen flesh with *****
Painting an ocean of abstract thoughts
Across the edges of their frames of mind
Do morticians make up the majority
Of necrophilia related crimes?
Maybe so but, I bet they had never felt
A ****** so dry and so cold
Yet still the thrill of chills tickle these criminal's spines
While they measure their screams careful not to awaken
The beautifully disgusting corpses that lie before them
They turn their heads only to find a pair of scarlet eyes
Gawking at them from within a cowardly shield of fear
Darkness was it's home, Mother to all its desires
In my opinion it was just a phase; A massacre encaged
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 4:12 AM UTC
Running North,
aura lights
are taking me home.
Six feet underground.
Pine box mannequins,
all done up dead and pretty.
Morticians's pride,
a job well done.
Such a shame,
it was a closed-casket
viewing.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
Until tonight they were separate specialties,
different stories, the best of their own worst.
Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy's
laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first
story. Someday, I promised her, I'll be someone
going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum
school for proper girls. The next April the plane
bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned
and fear blew down my throat, that last profane
gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned
to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor,
sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure.
Maybe Rose, there is always another story,
better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory.
Half a mile down the lights of the in-between cities
turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy's
story, the April night of the civilian air crash
and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper,
the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash
ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her.
This was the rude **** of her; two planes cracking
in mid-air over Washington, like blind birds.
And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking
bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards
to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature
photograph left, too long now for fear to remember.
Special tonight because I made her into a story
that I grew to know and savor.
A reason to worry,
Rose, when you fix an old death like that,
and outliving the impact, to find you've pretended.
We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat.
I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.
2.1k
The color of death is not black, is not white.
Not red, not gold.
Think: ashen skin.
Think: where did the blood go?
Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again. He’s going to bruise again.
Mottled red and purple and blue and green and yellow.
That’s what the body does after death. Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.
The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
back and forth
in the bag hanging above the bed.
My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
the soft whoosh of the ventilator.
The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
Think: cells mutating.
Think: proned patient coding after intubation.
Bruised. His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets. And a single transfusion only goes so long.
Goes three weeks long.
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup. The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
I’ve read the books.
I’ve heard the talks from morticians.
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
grey.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:55 PM UTC
that's how callously compassionate and vainly godly
humanity has become under the Oligarchy.
nice men and women of all five colours,
sitting around comfortably in alcoholic stupidity,
with their thumbs up their bums,
trying so hard to keep shtum,
about the undeniable fact that
they cant drum up a drop of ***
between them.
Seriously babbling religiously godly nonsense,
wreathed in smelly Tobacco smoke mimicking incense,
abandoning pretense at conscience,
hating empowering commonsense,
lacking all but nonsense.
with the mien of morticians
and the mendacious psychobabble of politicians
and the inspired madness of medical technicians
making badly placed cerebral incisions
and worst of all supporting
oligarchy inspired decisions.
About the "end of days and nights"
being put up for offers on the "free market".
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
The old man's getting married to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse does shine!
That' what he gets for perving!
Get him to the morgue on time!
The old man's getting to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse does shine!
The undertakers are steady,
Both the coffins are ready,
Extra wide for the big fat groom and bride!
The old man's getting married to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse does shine!
The bride is wearing her thongy,
His sons are bringing their bongies,
Get him to the morgue on time!
The old man's groom married to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse does shine,
The mob are bringing Marijuana pesto,
The transvestites are saying hello,
They can be mothers of the bride!
The old man's getting married to a fat ******
Ding, **** the wedding hearse shall shine,
Yes, that's what you get for perving,
The morticians are all ready,
The coffins are standing steady,
Get him to the morgue on time!
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
Nothing in life
was as sweet as your kiss.
So soft, so yielding, so fine.
Nothing so warm as your
cherry chapped lips.
That I savored when,
once, you were mine.
I paid my respects
at Your wake yesterday.
The morticians are good at their art.
You, sleeping princess, beautiful still,
through the decades that we've been apart
Except for your lips
which so oft I had kissed;
The beautician left them
grim tight and dry.
Both of us know they were
nothing like that.
That's when I let myself cry.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
I was always one for subtelty
but this was almost too easy
Click went the locking mechanism
Shattering the lock
Almost too easy
As behind me it silently shuts
Follow your scent
Through the sterile halls
A pin drop
Security gaurd Mag light
Down a quiet dark corridor
I cover my mouth with my hand
To cover the laughter as i hide
Almost too easy
I FIND IT
The door opens
This is almost surreal
I feal the cold
My breath is a cloud
So quickly in and out
Stiffling laughter
My wide begging eyes
Jessica
I shake with anticipation
The cold habdle beneath my skin
The bag
The frost
Unzip
white flesh
red hair
blue lips
purple veins
i am at a loss
for words
as i stand above you frozen
Still with you
I will die here
warmth on your translucent skin
was it my finger
Or that of another
that traced the outline of your black lips
or the frozen glaciers of your hip bones
Suddenly a light behind me
The gaurd screams stop
I laugh hysterically
i can no longer hold in my euphoria
No one will take you from me again
not even the stone hands of your step-father
i scream wide eyed
With resolution
and speed that surpised even me
My fingers curl about the handle of a scalpel
Left so carelessly out on the counter
By the morticians assistant
on his first day
a bullet rips me through my shoulder
but i fear no pain
i am no coward for you
no fear as i close in beneath the white flourescnent lights
No one will seperate us again
the warmth of the spray
black puddle against the tile so white
Your eyelids flutter
as i watch my final breath condense befoere my eyes
A cloud
my final breath
I fall asleep at your side
Eternal
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
Slow moving manics
Dance more frantic
When they know
They don't got a nickel to spare
Aware of the hair
Missing but still fair
Where women make love
God watching from above
So late now
Yes so late it is now
Love gone and away
I couldn't stay
You talk to me
And you write to me
As if you truly knew
Every ****** thing
That is the thing
That I just can't seem to understand
That is the ****
That made me give the final nod
Who are these people
Among the desert steeple?
Do they pray for themselves
Or is there truly someone else?
Money made me do somethings
While passion some others
Irresponsibility is guilt
Cast down from the man wearing the stilts
Believe in the sleeve
Of the beggar shaking next to you
For he can see
What we'll all soon be
These promises of luck
Or handed out
From the ten eyed ghosts
That have never felt the ****
The vacuum of morticians
Piling body after body
All covered in mud
Obsessed with this drive called love
House with a machine
That translates that into this
Get out of my house machine
I need life to believe
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
For tragic is just a trapped magic
Let's try harder to break the cage
Where it dwells in
Just like the hopes packed
In a coffin
So come all jolly lads
and whimsical princesses
take out your torches under the streetlights
for the lamps have withered out
and nothing can save you
except what you believe in the unseen
so come all jolly ladies
and whimsical princes
dance with the revenant before they vanish
for nothing can be done unless
you succumb to the delusion
and the foul mess you created
for the purpose of self-destruction
So join in morticians and
Men of desolated sorority
Grab out your shovels to dig up the magic
Stolen by the faeries of the day that reside
In the caverns of gloom and doom
Where trickery binds our wrists
And lead us to the dead-end
Painted with magic
And will be painted again for ever more
With our tragic fate of trapped magic
So I say,
“Come, come, jolly lads
And whimsical princesses
Join in, morticians and
Men of desolated sorority
For nothing can be done unless
You have something to hold on in life
In darkness or in light
Visions of hell or heaven
Deluded or disillusioned”
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
Appeared to be a normal day,
At our University of the Third Age,
Grannies and grandads writing epic lit.,
Forgot our hearing aids and blankets...
We walked away from the class,
Drank our coffees on the grass....
One old moll began this thing,
We cast off inhibitions and wedding rings,
Decided to have a greys' love-in,
One last winter's love fling,
Before hearses the morticians bring,
We were all senile, obese and ga-ga,
Our grey scrawny ***** made us ha-ha,
We gave those grandpas some thrills,
We all forgot our cardiac pills,
The old boys were gasping for breath,
Moribundi, close to death....
So, appeared to be a normal day,
On the grass, after class, at U3A,
Love-in amongst the greys,
It was grey liberation day!!!!
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
If you sit in a hospital room long enough it looks a lot like a funeral home
If you hear a doctor say they don't know what to do anymore enough times it sounds a lot like a mortician asking about the funeral arrangements
When you watch the lines on a heart monitor flutter out of rhythm enough times it feels a lot like your own has stopped beating
When you sit in an ambulance reciting someone's medical history enough times you almost want to beg them to drive slower
As you're standing in the middle of the funeral home you'll realize it's more calming than a hospital room ever could have been
When you hear the sirens and it registers in your mind they can't possibly be coming for her you'll look down and finally see what you've done
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
We were born to die alone in the dark
A dissected corpse, a desiccated heart
Loose limbs tightened with rigor mortis
Broken bones and emptied bawls
Becoming a morticians doll
To be posed and paraded before
Our loved ones
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Is it alright to ask
The foreign bride
If she prefers to be alone
On her wedding day?
Is it fair to ponder
If love is truly impenetrable,
Even in the late morning when
The fog is just burning off?
Is it crude to question
What color ******* the cheerleader's
Wear for their boyfriends
For the big day holy homecoming?
Is it rude to question
Fees for morticians and their
Nightlifes so nondescript
It's alive?
Is it false to query
People looking weary,
Propped up like mannequins
In store windows?
Is it true to be false or
Is it false to be true?
What if where you end
Is really
Where you are supposed to start?
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
teardrops on a bedroom pillow
blood drops into the bathroom sink
my heart drops into my stomach
my voice drops to a monotone whisper
my body drops to the floor
my mother drops me off at the hospital
morticians drop my body into the casket
the priest drops the casket into the earth
the worms drop into my hollow chest
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 2:39 AM UTC
From whom did I dare seize the fire
Which casts light on truths to be sung to lyres
The revelations are suffice to inspire
Paeans to be sung around the pyres
There was thunder in my brain
When truth cantered inwards like a train
Albion pointing to the warriors slain
And to his wound, his immortal pain
From the torch the truth doth bright exude
A light that is a sort of useful food
That renders visions in which sense brews
That with divinest meaning woos
Promethea a warrior magician
I am also the strangest of physicians
Bearing heavy the weight of contrition
When faced with the plans of the worlds morticians
I traverse my path to get my heroine
On this troubled, but essential quest I begin
There is nothing that we can win
But we can redeem our conscience of the devil's sin
But Devils' sham religiosity will not survive the ravage of time
Earth's rustic children are the truly sublime
To dare to strike them down in their prime
Is the most heinous of mortal crimes
O, my god, I bear to you
The angel, the angel, spirit true
Through my heart a warm breeze blew
For having seen a soul so true
Now you can ascend the stair
And find your way to perfect care
In the castles of the air
And find peace in angels luscious blare
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
The dead embrace the dirt
They will never sprung like
April tulips, on a frigid day,
Or survive as long as Hyperion roots
*(The beginning of love is horror
of happiness (quote: Robert Bly)*
So, let my poetry filled you up: with the knowing
(The dead are for morticians & butchers
to touch. Only a gloved hand)
before the dust….and ashes
Be more afraid of the living,
with their cold and warm hands
and deceitful minds above all things
they spit and vinegar tongues
The living embraces the struggle of staying alive
Due to the many heartache and sorrows
~~~
*(When those we love betray our trust,
We find the depth of human pain;
Oh, let me rise above these hurts
Until the sun shines, once again!
~Gertrude Tooley Buckingham, "My Prayer" (1940s)*
*
So , let my poetry filled you up with knowledge of knowing
The dead cannot harm you any more,
Way down upon the earth floor,
Let the tulips once again bloom
However, let the earth worm do the rest.
Under the tallest tree in the world: coast redwood
Hyperion:
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 10:26 AM UTC
And it will waste away, and they will all go back to resume their corresponding programming, and dig themselves in in their favorite distractions. This deeply buried corruption they 'grieve' over, no where near from being exhumed—just as the morticians have devised. Sad isn't it? But it always has been.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
I hate this world
because of smartphone
this might sound odd
because it's our home.
We have all become stoic
and self-consumed
men of power, mere comic
nobody's amused!
I hate this world
but I love humanity.
the lovechild of God,
his purpose, its entirety.
We came here to live
and multiply and be happy.
We came to have fun and feel alive,
I hate that we've all become ******
I hate this **** world
because of Donald Trump.
He's void of a decent word
I hate that he's so **** dumb!
We have to be politically correct
and most time racially sensitive.
About many things, indirect
About few things, proactive.
I hate this crazy world
but it still turns us all on
Just like an outdated centerfold,
That we can't afford to just burn.
I hate this world because of politicians
They lie to us and live off us.
I love this world because of morticians
In the end, they do a very good job for us.
©️IB-Poetry
2/26/2018
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 4:34 AM UTC
to feel the morticians warm hand
on your cold dead flesh
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 2:07 AM UTC
WHETHER morticians wear
the makeup of cadavers
or madness is the friendliest
voice makes no difference
you are sick
to believe loud colors
have no mouth
and the trunks of people
grow deeply rooted roads
that have many toll booths
the rich pay for free things
and the poor steal dreams
those dead envy the living
and those alive
feel so dead.
:: 10-27-2018 ::
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC