the things I have to lose to survive
the things I have to do to stay alive
while others walk comfortably down
well-lit streets I am in the graveyard
trying to decline a proposal. I don’t
want to be engaged to be buried.
Life is simply a form of torture.
We are put in this body only for it
to decay, slowly but inevitably, and
we are powerless to stop it. Attempts
to slow it down are gigantic yet futile.
if you’re not afraid, you haven’t
been paying attention.
This is the poetry of death;
it is far more than flesh fiction.
Sit cross-legged on this mound of
earth and I will read it to you.
It is, after all, all I have. And
no wonder I lose myself in
this place when I shelve my
personality in anticipation
of finality, in favour of the
formality illness brings, the
threat of structure, of sutures,
a body held together with string
but I am bored of tragedy now,
So bring up your dead –
unearth them like secrets no-one
wants to hear, like campfire
stories no-one asked for.
Some days all we know are nights
my finger smudges all over my wine glass
the only impact I have, as you can see
I’m not good for much at these times
but I can make you happy
sitting on my own tombstone
singing songs of hell and hazard.