Notes on the Dead

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
In which I philosophize on mortality.

Submitted: August 12, 2014

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Submitted: August 12, 2014

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A fingernail,

a strand of hair,

a fetishist.

 

A chest,

cracked wide, the lines

of history,

 

an age

spent dying. Crawling, inching

toward the

 

slow inevitability,

the slow decay, the

effacement of

 

the vessel.

The soul though, lingers.

Am I

 

a masochist

because I refuse to

die? it

 

cries out.

The dead, the cold

dead, the

 

quiet dead,

the evil dead, they

all lay

 

naked to

their Earth, trees burst

from them,

 

thick, inflexible

bastards born reaching for

the sky,

 

they spend

their lives failing. They

choke the

 

dust from

their parents, Matricide! Patricide!

Evil thoughts!

 

Evil Notions!

Push them from your

mind, child!

 

God is

watching you! (God? GOD!)

His eyes

 

are on

you! The dead have

no malice,

 

they laugh

at the living, You

fools! They

 

cry in

quick, dry laughter, You

don’t know

 

of the

end! You don’t know!

and they

 

sneer in

their knowledge and turn

their heads

 

into the

kiss of the casket.

The roots

 

are their

lovers! (Off with it!

Off with it!)

 

Desecrating the

dead, envying them their

blindness, their

 

darkness, longing

to crawl into the

mouth of

 

the grave,

to curl up against

its tongue,

 

to kick

the bones away so

that we

 

may take

the knowledge, the dust.

 

June 3, 2014


© Copyright 2019 Stevi Anthony . All rights reserved.

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