Little Death
Listless dregs of a dying soul
Flayed and abused by the poisons of life
Rancid cloyed steam of wet tumour, red coals
Cold vapour of ruin, of horror, of strife
Fearful shadows of pain and of blight
Crystallized steel at the blade of the knife
Cracked voices that howl at the edge of the night
Come death! Blessed cure for the torment of life
Noxious the odour of long rotted thoughts
Their ragged wet fibres I’ll weave as a shroud
A fine garment of death for the pilgrim we bought
The evil in flesh who speaks now aloud
See! See the pained glory of meat in the pot
A huddle of monkeys brings blade to the flesh
In rank concentration against god do they plot
Their dark chthonic spells our souls do enmesh
Of blood and of semen and spears and of gold
Of rapine and murder and ships and of gales
Of shouts to great Zeus on the breath of the bold
Of these things are wrought all of humankind’s tales
Within the tight coffin of life we are caught
Shut off from the icy cool dark of night’s hell
With only one thing can our freedom be bought
Flow blood! Cease Heart! I relinquish the shell
The dregs of my mind tore open the rift
Compelled and stirred up by a surfeit of beer
My mind to my demons I made as a gift
Leaving me lost, deluded, quite queer.
This poem was submitted by Keith Rowley.
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