Mourning Wood

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Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

He scans the bereaved for available gashes,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

Grief itself inflames his lust,

Black is such a slimming colour –

How’s your father? (And your mother?)

Tears lend such a delicate hue,

(Come now, this day’s about you)

‘She’s laid on the wake and made me a sandwich,

Surely that’s licence to make her my bitch?’

The pain on her face lends a peculiar grace,

Silent permission to give an embrace.

Was he very close to the deceased?

Not at all – just there to get her on her knees.

(Come, now – don’t play hard to get,

He knows a way that’ll make you forget)

Oh, it’s sad that you’ve lost your spouse

But honestly speaking, aren’t you a little aroused?

He’s there to fill the hole that’s been left,

To observe the ritual and her breasts –

They’ve laid her husband to rest in his plot, Now he’s straining to rest in that slot.

Death becomes her, it has to be said, He’s not resting ’til he gets her to bed,

He’s intoxicated by the scent of death in the air,

As he gently strokes her face and her hair,

(There, now – doesn’t that feel nice?)

He’s determined to please her once if not twice,

‘Don’t worry about what they may say,

Your husband has gone and is in his grave’

She leans in to him and it feels so good

As he leans into her

With his mourning wood.

halloweengravesbest

 

Words and images (c) of the original artist 2015 and may not be reproduced without permission

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Done

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No delicate brush

Met my palette of poetry

Fingers dug

And flung

Straight at the canvas

Creativity ravenous

To be done and hung

With a plaque reading ‘Raw’

Perhaps somewhere near the door

Where my family

And others too poor

To pay the entry

And mingle with the gentry

Could see.

Words and images (c) of the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission 2015