i cleansed my casket today,
pristine as a puddle
and sparkling like dander
caught
at the crisp edges of the sun.
my death - made perfect
in defect.
a little too the left of the
moon in full bloom.
just out of night-sight
(or the public's view).
feet planted but infertile,
mind in thirst
but over watered,
soaked
through sodden bone and
limp skin
like root rot in debugged soil.
unkempt
and unkept,
though I stick like seedlings
to everything
that will only rub me away,
in shadow
and in shame.
but as long
as my casket is clean
my death
will be beautiful...
oh oh oh, but so many gems in this dark sparkly little whirlpool. A darker tone to your voice in these recent posts, more acidic in its potency and wonderfully dismissive of the absurd reality encasing it all (cleansing a casket). This is brilliantly witty: feet planted but infertile,
ReplyDeletemind in thirst
but over watered
and this is most envy inducing:
though I stick like seedlings
to everything
that will only rub me away,
in shadow
and in shame.
sticking like seedlings - what an image and so accurate in these instances, the irony of being so small in the grand scheme of things yet ubiquitous in that solipsistic selfish human way, such that the smallness is but many many seeds sticking to everything, ever present and weighted.