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This is a journalese "devoted to death"...post your poems, prose, thoughts on death. Why not? Breaking the conventions of a funeral procession can be kind of funny. In a sick twisted way, of course.

*


Who


in the ghetto
shadows sleep
— as we must

Us!

near and dear
cut down, by
shovels of dĭ-vō'shen
and hands

— on carts!



DR

New Jersey’s March

Remember when we used to go
to the edge of the lake
to let our feet sink in the thick
dull brown mud?

Or how bout the time we
rode those motorcycles through
your Daddy’s evergreen farm?


How bout the time we dyed
my hair blue and my
mother threaten to beat both of us?


Cause lately, all I can remember
is the accident,
how you seemed so
small, crumpled up
in that front seat,
how slow the snow seemed
to fall on the quickly pooling
blood.

so, I went searching for a bit of death, seems I've written more than one, but here's -
the one that plagues me . . .to abstract, or plain, or something - ..


I possess a piece of paper,
ordinary, college ruled.
Worn slick by my own hand,
folded and opened,
and folded again.

The words of another
trail  down the page,
a simple piece of paper
leaving me breathless,
fighting for air.

There is no religion
in a work
such as this.
No hope, no shrine,
no terms of endearment.

Where faith has been blinded
and pain is the ravine of soul.

This I have seen, have read,
and consumed.-
Without the need
for edits.

Where Death
became-

“his father.”


*just my two cents and if someone will loan me four, I'll soon have a nickle...
more than cliche in the breathing and air.

*

Rubbishing the Defensless to Death


Absurd isn't it— a thought that snores in words that steam— that this fundamental element of sago and samp, should be the kudos of so much literature. I put the kettle on and took a snort— Nonsense, I thought.

Then gave thanks, for nothing.

I like the idea, too, of Easter, simply because the notion of post-mortem depression— so full of fossil sentiments in artificial rock— is a sure sign of faith.

The dead. The dead celeb.

Jesus, holed in one— rose, beneath a head of thorns. Unmoved.

Becoming— to Blackpool theatres, soon. Desiccated by MelGinto.



DR

Joe—

    loved the skip in the mouth of this, splendid. Thank you.

Dax

Thanks Dax, came from a deliberate practice in stream of conscience composition. I knew it was perfect for our poetic conversation about the abstract.

I don't know.
Nobody knows.
I cried and went asleep.
Between was life.
I remember everthing
that touched my mouth.
The inlet of sense.
The outlet of final breath.
Seal it when I am cold.
But not with wax.
Wax is for bees.

ab
stract
de
struct

tutti
c'est
merde
en la barrameda
n'est not?

noose
sommes
los hijos
de la
moo
erte
real
ly

g

and amor is an anagram of roam  ::) :) :'(

g

Words knock me out—  Guillermo. The fun we have with them ( I mean, you mean etc.) little wonder folks take to drink to get things out.

Amigo, bueno