Talking to our Fatal Father (or The Death Poem; formally Untitled)

July 15-19, 2004 (an excerpt)

Hoist me on a horror. Next, your signature fowards my rite to

decay. I'm cold and silvery, I'm clumped and seared.

And, so, today, all outcasts can come to the place forbidden

to earth, where we're all mere.

Greatness! You are a proper prelude for a cause to make

a little of a tittle. A tizzy for nothing, a friend of the

inevitable. Complete in a package, you're not a surprise

as an obvious soldier of the great demise.

Bones become light and pointless. Oh, why is it on you we land?

Left will only be the raw, talentless, necessary cravings

skulking yearly, laying as heavy blocks, reminding stock

after stock that each is an also-ran.

Why a query, why discuss? The fever you bring fails

the formula our anatomy protects within us. Toast to all

their finale, their simple awareness; band all our sounds

and we from all surroundings. We will be beneath the crust.

Crumbs. Yes, boys and girls that what we are. Look,

only look at the angelic sunbeams that grant life to dust,

the tiny glimmers rise to show some hope or unseen happenstance.

But not us.

There is the closing of curtains to lead all to infinity, which

seems so pretty when imagined. Though a puppy is predicted a

dog, a traveller could take a minute to avoid her bark, to hear her

damning yelp. Aww.

Simple sages predicate the ages, summoning the how-to of

worldly views, channeling the eyes of those who accept the ride,

swearing their versions presented are undeniably true, and

assuring all of the alternative coarse of last steps.

What? You've often seriously silent. Whenever you speak, it's

most chilly as I gather the importance of your importance,

when realizing the fear of your choice, your representation

of self - cosmic battery dutious, snatcher of presence.

Conception is your bell. New arrivals. Skinless taker, you welcome

every breather to the exit. Often you, I admit, carry about

a charitable sweetness when you visit, but there you hold in

either hand an empty husk of limited man.

Sort of insanity. Jangling needs for your blade to swing?

You have life left granting no black grit with white specks.

Brown covers will cast us never to be adrift, and there

is some pot, but no flower in it.

© 2004 Jarrod C. Lacy