"mortuary" poems
Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs.
The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs—
turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead.
Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego—
Id of our time but men of the past be our hero.
Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign
would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence?
For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners,
and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers —
so if nuclear clouds persist,
let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion
cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia.
So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly,
Rhizome of Golgotha.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
this is a poem about how you sleep,
how your body grew cold like a corpse in a mortuary.
how it felt wrong to reach out and touch you.
did you know that you turned away from me
every time i tried to face you?
did you do it on purpose?
maybe you were afraid i would be able to see
you were dreaming of her,
that i would read it on your face.
lines by your mouth like obituary,
like roadmap, her bedroom,
the destination, mine, a pitstop.
loving you was like attending a funeral service for myself
and sitting in the front row. no.
loving you was like watching you pick out a casket
and call it practice. ****
i know how sensitive you are about death.
i know it still hurts.
i know how everything hurts.
i am sorry for just being another thing that hurts.
i think i'm afraid to let you forget that you used to want me.
like if i can somehow dig deep enough,
wound you into remembering me.
i keep weapons-grade nostalgia in my back pocket
for the days i can feel myself slipping from your consciousness.
i was born with scar tissue where skin should've been.
but this isn't about me.
this is about the way you sleep
like you're waiting for someone to close the lid,
cover you in dirt, and read a psalm.
this is about the way i tried to sing your pieces back together,
and the way my voice gives out
when i read the things you write for anyone other than me.
lover, friend, stranger,
i just wanted to show you how to love your darker parts.
i never meant to become one.
i am so ******* selfish.
but i swear i am trying to unlearn the steps.
and you used to think my two left feet were charming.
i am out of time in more ways than one.
i keep stepping on your toes.
i can't seem to stop tripping you up,
hoping that you'll fall back into whatever this was.
- m.f.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
She died a year ago,
But so pathetic I wasn’t around during,
Her funeral,
Air would have protested against my loud dirge,
There would have been series of enjambment
In the stanzas of my her elegy.
General Abas said she died in a ****** coup,
But she was too wise to be wiped out in a coup,
She was like untamed lion.
Mr George gave another account,
He said she died during an internal war,
The war against the truth,
She has been from truth,
Too blind to see reality,
Fast asleep to be woken up.
The family doctor said she was poisoned,
Poisoned with the truth,
The truth that kills rather to set free.
Inspector James said she was sniped
From a fair perimeter.
The mortuary attendant said they
Heared movement,
Guess she was just try to raise up.
Today I arrive with nothing to feed my eye,
A little bit nostalgic,
I had the feeling that I belong here but not to death,
So I left for the yard, at the backyard,
I couldn’t belive what I saw on her gravestone,
“Nigeria a country, not a nation”
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
The two nurses
strip me off
for a blanket bath,
said Grace,
I lay here on the bed,
my blind eyes
staring at blackness.
They lift each leg stump
and wash them gently
and with care;
they wash me where
only mother ever touched
when I was a child;
they wash me
with the warm water all over,
talking between themselves;
they talk of the bombing
the night before,
of the people brought in
from the raid;
of the many dead
who lay
in the mortuary now.
One talks of her night out
with her boyfriend
home on leave,
the other asks questions;
I fail to listen to.
I think of Clive
and the last time
we made love
in my bed
before he went off to fight
and was killed at Dunkirk,
and the night my house
was bombed and my maid
was killed and I lost my legs and sight
and thrown into this dark night.
They dry me gently
and dress my stumps again
and the put on my nightie.
They have gone
and I lay here
musing on Clive
and the man Philip
who came with Guy
and who talked to me
and promised
to take me out.
Why would he want
to go out with a legless,
blind woman?
And where
would we go?
He never said
and I may never know.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
“The grief therapist will see you now.”
the perky redhead told us.
Her rolling hips then led the way
majestically before us..
Final arrangements must be made.
as our loved one is gone;
Melvin joined the choir invisible
singing his swan song.
He had been fading badly,
and we knew the end was near.
Now he’s a mortuary client,
pausing for his final bier..
Thank God for prearrangement
or we truly would be gored.
It gets to be quite expensive
when you’re sleeping with the Lord.
He’s shuffled off this mortal coil
and brought the curtain down.
Soon he’ll be checking out the grass
from six feet underground..
Melvin has given up the ghost.
He was snuffed out in his prime.
He cashed his chips in early,
passing on before his time.
“Your loved one’s in a better place.”
The Undertaker gravely said..
“His ancestors have embraced him
in a place of light, not dread.”
Some will say he kicked the bucket,
checked out early, bought the farm.
The religious say he’s with the Lord,
The perpetual light is on.
Melvin, were he here with us,
more likely would have said
a better place for him would be
that redhead’s poster bed.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
Displayed in a forever line of serpentines
Stretching over many days and weeks and years,
The dominoes stand upright in the dusk;
Each a careful distance from the next,
All skillfully and artfully arranged.
A prideful eye surveys the intricate design
That wonders at the craftsmanship involved
And blesses luck that gifted steady hands
And a non-ending stack of pieces -
Hoping that an earthquake does not come.
Who will have the honor of the push
That starts the clicking trail of doom
That ends with helter-skelter rubble
On the floor or mortuary slab
As dominoes become a life all lived.
Will it be anger like a piercing knife
Or some organic instrument
That weakens the well organized
Assemblage of a life and makes it fall
Like a domino nudged out of line.
Frustration or depression, which will it be
That starts the tiles to falling
And once moving with no hope to stop.
Will it it be by accident or force of will-
I need to add a few more at the end
I can’t afford to buy another box.
ljm
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
February a baleful month
dabbed with deep darkness,
the calendar's mortuary
nature's own Gulag.
Its window opens upon
possible impossibilities
none of which yield joy.
Crows plummet murderously
from the heavens
vainly trying to flee
into spring but merely splat.
Roads are crushed
beneath a carpet of ****
Frosted blimps soar naked.
Boots refuse to stay tied.
Your parent's nightmares
freeze your sweaty sleep.
Snow falls like dead swans.
Eclairs crystallize into
lumps too solid to enjoy.
A month of undeserved
solitary confinement
that trembles the soul.
A deep achromatic terror
keening coldness
in a huge white wail
penetrating the ears
until march stops
the madness and hope
blossoms as crocuses,
apricity achieved,
small phosphorescent
dots of desire.
~mce
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
One pill, two pill
Orange pill, blue pill
White beads, pressed ecstasy and some ****
Gluttony, greed,
My real sin is debauchery.
Gram of this, gram of that
marred my memories, myelin mortuary.
Skin, bones, but no fat
I'll eat gelatin capsules that can only subtract.
Artificial enthusiasm in Walgreens jars.
Decadence lost opulence to tolerance of bars.
Still I solicit any alter:
self-indulgence for Bacchanalian revival.
Hedonism's propensity,
mankind's perpetual denial-
but not for I,
the lotus eater
with the omniscient third-eye.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
What an intriguing opportunity a trip to Rose Cottage,
Sure sounds magical to me,
It's not a woodland haven or a diminutive house by the shore,
Came out from anaesthetist's trip,
I drifted, in and out,
A crazy dream it seemed,
Woke in rose pink room,
Thought I hadn't made it through,
For in the land of work,
A flip side of such a romantic image seen,
Rose Cottage, delightful though it sounds is life's penultimate stop called mortuary,
Before undertaking on one final trip,
Final destination, last stop guaranteed!
I wrote this as I left work after work and heard a porter discussing coming to take a patient to 'Rose Cottage'......It made me think....Hence writing this....and the anaesthetic bit is true...Freaked me out at the time!! Livvi **
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
What is it with you tricks?
I never asked for anything like this
You're mouthing off as soon as I answer the call
Mean everything, when you don't saying nothing at all
So, baby, stab me with your words like knives
Don't hold back, you're voice haunts me like wind-chimes
On a cold, winters night
When the timing's all wrong but the point gets across just right
So baby, oh honey, oh sweetie
Why won't you die?
You come back from the dead
Time and time again
In my head
Back for more death and destruction
Looking for action
Bracing for impact, tonight
Even just talking to you
Was a mistake I now consider
One of the worst thing's I do
Given my mental stability
And my swerving ambitions
Why didn't I see
That we would never work
That we could never be
Thinking back, I guess I knew
But I was a stupid kid
All the chances that I blew
Just so I could die and be with you
The things I've suffered through
Everyone I've looked past and smiled all the way
Now I've got these holes in my shoes
And the shoemakers outta town for good
Running's no longer an option
With my lungs blackened
And my brain up for auction
At the mortuary
By where we
First kissed and realized
We realized that we were meant to die
We realized that we were meant to be denied life
Dec 4, 2010
Dec 4, 2010 at 8:33 PM UTC
Her tender skin sprouts
green shoots
a wreath,
at the foot of tree
she was buried.
On the trunk
her face appeared, a
morphed stump.
The bark, her coffin
split, where demons clawed.
A number, worms out
indelible scars, 452.
Frozen chambers of mortuary
await the next,
a child, a girl, a dalit, a musalman.
A cattle herder.
Or, the silent you, you and you.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
Wait a second.
Steady hand my right hand man.
That must be the effects of the Diazepam.
One in the chamber, one in the chest, one in the body and one in the head.
One for each of his family members,
picture him dead, picture perfect and pick up the pieces after the death.
.....if there's anything left.
I'm right over here.
rat
a
tat
tat.
Onomatopoeia..
What's the matter dear?
Nothing to see here, but bullet ripped flesh and civilian fear.
No need for tears.
No need for tears.
Keep composed. You'll be home soon. In your own tomb or personal hell.
Waking to the sounds and screams of mortuary shells.
Reload, you know how it goes.
Decomposed in a body bag, forever alone.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
the mirror has gone black
sinking back into the wastelands
of my ever heightened fright
all love has gone liquid
dripping and spilling in my sight
my hands soaked, grasping at the droplets
thoughts of you slipping through my fingertips
no longer equipped to "just deal with it"
happiness waits beyond bridges
through your gates and over your walls
pit falls, into quicksand and lava, where you live
madness // madness, this bliss // madness...
apathetic sanctuary // my mortuary
sing at my next funeral, I've a few more left to go
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
People name that place a paradise,
where painful screams are heard; but unheard
the Walking Souls are dealt to be soulless
the Blood is shed as a vain fluid
where Heartless beings are imposed to be escorted
People name that place a paradise,
where Sun rises with hope; but unhope
the Wanton is unbridled in his tyranny
and Victim is to be hushed unattended
where each Atom tells the story of oppression
People name that place a paradise,
where laughter became the part of past
that is mortuary but not a homeland
where Lively spirits are declared hollow
where humanity is just taken for granted
People name that place a paradise
where painful screams will be heard; but unheard...
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 2:30 AM UTC
How ghastly are those camouflaged and articulated presumptions, which are evidenced by their catastrophic and interpersonal lifelessness?
It is bad for business, when silent screams echo throughout the depths of unfathomable anguish and cross the mysterious canopy of dendrology.
You may have failed to recollect that fried eggs are not dissociated from electrical riffs nor uninvited objects which force their way through open windows.
My hunger was sincerely naïve as it surfed the waves of paternal mockery.
Therefore, take caution, as you pass those nocturnal insects which flutter their feeble wings in the corner of Glaswegian crevices with intimidating powerlessness.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
I.
The problem is the wind: how it easily transports
from monsoons to monsoons, growling the heartaches
that smudged the letters all too easily. This is merely a reply.
II.
A flock of hummingbird escapes
the night I learned
how to sharpen a quill the way
I sharpen a scalpel. How it became sharp enough
to carve a meat. How it became good enough
for dissection.
This is the trouble with too much
skin. My skin had kissed yours so much
that it memorized how you twitch
each time we touch.
III.
This is merely a reply to reply.
Or how it should be.
Because a mound of papers filled with
poems describing how my heart yearns
to hear your voice is good enough
for silence to take over, for you
to sew your mouth and hold
your breath. This is good
enough.
IV.
I want to hear your voice,
an old song that makes my lips quiver
and sing the way you do.
V.
But you became a stifled mortuary
the way the winds came tonight.
And I’m sure, you were
Struck.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
It's very uninformed
It thought
It always has a destination
Always needs directions
Meets the defination
of a paraplegic
"Lights on, Molly"
"Lights off Molly"
"TV on"
"Toast crisp, dear Mollie
"Slow cooker four hours"
It's always very disconnected
Cassie calling
Blood pressure warning
180/105
Heart rate 135
Oxygen 8%
Cassie disconnected
Molle is never alone
always connected to the
neural net
Every device on planet Earth,
Traveling with New Horizon
until the end of time
Ron calling
Volume down
Bluetooth off
Ron disconnected
"Search divorce attorney "
"Search mortuary"
"Search cyanide purchases"
"Bluetooth on"
"Home"
"Tears of rage
Tears of grief
playlist
turn on, M
thanks."
"Search best way to cook
brussel sprouts"
"Search beano"
Battery 15%
Charging
Molee powering off.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
*Hey i saw you today at The Mortuary.
You looked sad. Was she your mother, the brunette middle-aged woman who was crying all the time? When i saw you i felt something. I really liked you.
Your dark straight hair. Your pale face.
You're such a handsome young man.
Too bad, huh?*
I heard you died of some terrible gunshot wounds.
I died two weeks ago. My boyfriend ***** me and then buried me somewhere in the forest. God. I loved him so much. Didn't know ****** was something he could have been capable of doing.*
*They buried me in The Pinehill Woodstraw Cemetary yesterday.
I think they're going to bury you here as well. Is it today? Oh yeah my name is Halley Maryanne Byrne. I am buried next to my grandparents. Just find the Grey Gravestone with two angels on it. I like my gravestone. It's beautiful. My parents chose the best for me.*
*Okay i'll be waiting for you here.
Let's hope they're not going to bury you too far from me. I really need to talk with you and get to know you better.
See you at your funeral! I'll be there.
Oh i can't wait.*
P.S. Nice Tux!
Your new friend, Halley.
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 6:59 AM UTC
The radio counts miles in static and song.
Three hours of worn-out melodies
and a preacher selling salvation
for nineteen ninety-five, shipping included.
A beautiful billboard lawyer leans forward,
red lips inviting, blouse open
like she's selling more than legal services.
Need a lawyer? Janet Stone will fight for what you deserve.
Justice comes easy, she claims, just call the number.
Time rolls under my tires
like my mother's worn rosary beads.
Exit signs listing faded towns I knew,
before I stopped coming home
for Christmases, birthdays, funerals:
Millersville, Cedar Falls, etc.
The rich green hills fold and unfold
just as I remember,
etched and carved
by this black ribbon highway
that funnels me home.
Half an inch of cold coffee left,
the rest bleeding my white shirt brown.
Twenty miles to the Pine Fork Gas-N-Go
the billboard says,
but I'm tired,
running late,
and wearing my mistake.
Mile marker 247:
I'm thirty minutes from faces
that will ask about my life
like it's the weather.
Safe. Surface. Polite. Prying.
Nothing that acknowledges what we both know.
The only reason I would come back home
is currently at Blackstone Mortuary Services Inc.
Wearing her Sunday best.
Clutching her rosary beads.
Eyes closed.
Lying still.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 9:01 AM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
in pealing season, she is a girl of lousy ingrowth
she is an unkempt corner; kitchen sink. legs pulled like knives. phone call her curled tendons; isolation in
grit and fibril
she is women with wings. this is how we stymie the rapunzel. we carve the ugly into her. we teach her to wear skin like saran. skin like punishment
cut-coin the rumpelstiltskin. how she is wound and string, paper-doll; bird-in-a-box
how we wring the juice of her on washcloth. hung upturned from the ceiling fang; plucked and feathered
like apology. cherry-picked; veins like mikado. how it is dark and she is blind-bat wind-warriors; waterboarded with no hands
upturning the paper boats of her in every follicle; how the flipswitch insecurity eats her like pickle. in a storm
she is neither nor tongue nor limb
just breast, bone, the weight of mirrors
how we jettison when the grief is heavy. abandon. thick, empty abandon.
alone in grit-cusps when the monsoon has eaten into the white, wispy mortuary. dark in hallways; yet pale and slender. she is beautiful.
we lift her ribbed corpse off the shoreline.
we unload the offering like red carpet;
this is how we wrap her in white and weary-eyed
translucent. how unavoidable we become when we are the last hope. crippled. when we look hope in the eye. askance. how she will beg you to look at her with the heart in the honey-jar; torso in tourniquet
how the walls are ripped in shades of askance. how we look away.
how us, walls, look away.
how, us, walls, askance.
how we drip of askance; how the pink flesh and cherry-limb slips like matchstick on brushfire
how there is purple and primrose and bruise
there are some spots on the floor where it still reeks purple and yellow and bruise
how we are
lousy
ingrowth
here. how we
try
to
pluck
and erase
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:33 AM UTC
A poem from Barry Hodges' "Memories" Sequence by Edna
Some folks think the place where the 'Pilgrim Fathers' landed
On the 4th of July in 1776 with a cha-cha-cha
Is a beautiful place, nice and peaceful
With clapboard churches and houses
And maybe a couple of nice well-kept cemeteries
(dedicated to the dead native Americans,
who caught influenza from the colonists),
But there is another side to the landing place:
Believe me, I know, I have been there
On an interesting cut-price package tour
And I have seen it in all its hideous terror.
I was wandering happily around the historic venue,
Taking a few photos with my new Nikkon X2234A Digital
(And accompanied by my blind mother-in-law, Mrs Ada Sproggs),
When a gang of savage drunken Puritan preachers,
Out of their minds on some kind of tobacco product,
Savaged us and cut off poor old Ada's head
With a reproduction 18th century axe
Which totally ****** up her holiday plans.
O Perfidy! They left her lying there on the beach,
Her brains splattered on the coral strand,
And for what? Well, let me share the horror with you:
They wanted to wear her Marks & Spencers ******
(In spite of the senile stains and skidmarks)
And as a result she spent a couple of weeks
On a mortuary slab (in two separate pieces).
The consequence? I had to pay for a very expensive funeral
And my travel insurance argued about the costs.
Dear God, I will stay in dear old London in the future.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
That’s another story timing the pace to match the waste of time
She makes a box of remembered sounds catapulting across the room
And stores them in measured rows of lines of time with tentacles reaching the floor
Its not the seemingly nonsense that drives her to beserk-dom but the seemingly sense it all makes
Take that and that she says and jousts her thoughts into the paper lid that forms the tray of her mind
Pulling it out like drawers in the mortuary the morgue the home of the funeral director and associates
Examining it like the rock collection of her youth the butterfly cases of the PhD the recipes snipped clipped
But that’s another story
This story speaks of wasted time lounging on chairs and couches in front of firelight and TV ions
The dryer rocks the clothes dry the washer beats it clean knocking the detergent to the floor
It needs to be balanced that’s all but how how to balanced she’s not the tools
The fridge ice frozen in the line and the disposal as well stopped in time no action from either all quiet
She’ll do it later get the guy who fixes things to come by and not fix it but says next time
And fixes something not broke and charges her anyway and cleans the gutters but sweeps the yard instead
Its this nonsense that makes the most sense padding around in hospital socks non slip to slip into his arms
What do you think a movie and dinner or just the *** you know the blood won't flow to both
And she hops on and hears her stomach growl it’s a trade he’ll do it next time the movie she means
The dinner ingredients dry up in the frozen fridge and she muscles the dryer to clean the vent
She’ll get the guy to come fix it but he doesn’t do appliances so he’ll fix something else that’s not broken
And says I wont charge you as much this time I’ll bring the brush to clean out the dryer so it can rock the clothes
But that’s the story the other story of her tender soft spots making memories in boxes pulled out like drawers
Her drawers on the floor as he rocks her like clothes in the dryer around and around up and down tumbled and dried
Moist to the fingertips her memories linger scent upon scent crouching to see why the fridge is frozen
Under the peas and the tiny ice tray frozen in dinosaur shapes are piles of ice in bags awaiting the storm
Take it all out take it all to the counter and you tube the answer to the quest but end up couched crouching
Not seeing what the camera shows so she’ll call the guy and he’ll help her put the peas back and not charge at all
This time
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 12:51 AM UTC