Tag Archives: Birth

Flower, alone…


No one came to my funeral.
They came to say goodbye,
to mourn, to cry…
Dressed in black like crows
awaiting patiently until the first worms
shall make their way from underneath my skin.
Yes, they came,
but not to my funeral.
There was I,
alone, dressed in black like a monstrous raven,
nested uncomfortably amongst shiny cushions
filled with cheap fibre; hollow fibre…
They all came in the end;
where were they when I needed them most?
When all my innermosts were screaming
for anything to ease the pain of screaming
in vain?
There alone, blind, wrapped in blood,
so unlike the orgasm which conceived me…
Dumb little sucker,
tossed around like a bushel of cheap meat…
Nope, no one came that day.
They were busy with their own funerals and stuff;
except for the dying ones, themselves.

They’re all here today;
adorned with cheap, dead flowers,
choir of drunk undertakers
digging the last trenches of dignity.

Photo by Wikipedia

Life, as we know it…

“Birth is our life’s first tragedy; death is it’s last, with truth as the sunny side of lying, in between…”


Suicide from death to life…


It’s a lie,
our birth into this world…
Mourning should have welcomed us,
but perfect companion
for all
sweat, tears, blood and
“doctor, doctor, the baby’s not crying…”
tube in, suck, “slap”, “slap”
“-frail, agonising human meowing…-”
Blood all over,
with our hideous, blueish
cut away companion swimming in a pathetic plastic bowl…
“What is it nurse?”
and the embarrassing silence
following a sobbing;
dad wanted “something” else…

When in distress,
or asleep,
humans have an instinctive reaction:
we curl back
in foetal positions…
Assembled into existence;
tiny atomic conglomerates of material memories,
embraced in a lightless quest for temporary shelter,
growing, dreaming…

Something’s wrong outside,
in this limitless dimension of suffering,
where we are denied even our thumbs ’cause
“it’s childish, you silly…”
It’s not what I’ve mindlessly dreamed of…
Ladies and gentlemen, comrades, brothers, sisters,
we’re all dead;
wretched food for the all-devouring chronos…

Can’t you see, you, miserable clients
of Freudian stock,
that life is just the opposite
of living?

I’ve had enough…

I’ll close my eyes -again-,
pretending to be functional(ly):
And tasteless,
and breathless,
and heartbeatless,
mindful nevertheless…

I’ll stay calm, still,
all material memories of my
mothers and fathers
shall force my withheld senses
to return;

If life’s the opposite of living,
what’s death?
The opposite of dying?

It’s just the recipe for it…

Dreaming’s our continuous suicide
from death,
to life…

* – photo from cover of Joel Arnold, “Fetal Position and other stories”