They try to take the sting out of death:
a grassy meadow, secluded plot, trees
advertising consumers' funereal needs,
but not now. Now, we need a New Orleans
jazz band blasting out the fact that life is short
and can be glorious, but not for him. No, not for him:
too many desertions, too many lapses in care,
too often nobody there to pick up the pieces,
nothing to begin again, It all became too much
the bottle was always there: hidden behind the chair,
stuffed under the stairs. And then his mother
died and the whole world became a lie,
buried in Cheshire with the ashes of his mum
and their final two dogs. What’s more to say?
He’s gone away.
When I look into the mirror
I do not see my face
I see the ghosts behind me
inter-laced,
trailing blood and gore
whispering what is life for?
i excuse my misapprehension,
I apologize for my fault,
I’d love to fully explain:
my face, my persona, my whole gestalt.
But I ain’t a good prose writer,
I cannot see the end,
I always hear the thunder
of my friend's lonely suicide.
hurt is deep within my heart,
loneliness tears me apart;
one day it will succeed
and i will be dead, in deed.

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