The moss grows like stains bred by the memory of continents,
growing, leaking perhaps, certainly spreading, dripping the absinthe,
tipsy and teasing and changing the scriptures to:
"I woke up this morning and oo-ooh, I realised I was dead."
They are gnarled by respect and it gives fancy to the place,
just outside the gate, where they would lay my head. Would my grey vintage
rustle and try to collect the vine there or would it fall as it were, face down,
like a lame bluff - all twos and threes - and all five of them me, ignored on the turf;
a Pompeii framing my hobby mastered, my Endgame instead?
It's only a name, one that one will forget and all those remains, my twisted hair,
my nails - that tip toeing stigmata - just advertise the rot to the core
that grew up and bored. Thank God - that spittle that settles on our lips when we leash
our want like children tangled in toys - my face will will fade, some people are shoved into their mess
and this is restless, it comes, it is deserved and I was born for this:
"Here lies someone,
Just place the hands near the ears so I won't hear them thanking God -
the ignorance could be a russian roulette and the heart might still be there.
Like a bullet.