On this anniversary of my death,
frequent years since my last breath
on naked skin
or in a heated lover's mouth,
yeah,
since the day I headed south
from life and shit in general.

Mark the headstone,
dance the dance,
wax poetic,
take the stance that I was
good, and kind, and smart
as spats on 30's ghetto jive.
"Oh, I wish he was alive,"
say you, say me, say he.
We three mourn the loss of
greatness unrealized
in someone's eyes before
"I'ze gone."
"So wrong, so strong."
On the anniversary of my death,
all by myself.

A songwriter would I've been,
if I only had a pen that captured
on the page,
the song would be the current rage,
dum-ti-dum ti-dum ti-dum,
I might have even learned to strum
some string'ed thing.

I will be scant remembered thus,
lying here alone as me, not us,
the way that life allowed
the freeway to be built
down through the neighborhood,
for good of faster passing by.

And why?
Shit.
Shit shit.
Shit shit shit's
all the end result
of all we do,
and chew until the teeth
wear down around
the gums, not fit for
food or even native
necklaces, I guess.

We cast our sparks off
where we could,
and lying here I should
be grateful most eternal,
but I'm not.
For boxed and shipped I am
not doing what I can to upset
worldly things once more,
not even whoring properly
for the masters that I flee and
curse in songless verse,
scribbled on the coffin lid.

On the silent, simple anniversary
of my ever elementary,
Non-birth.

05/21/2006

Posted on 05/22/2006
Copyright © 2024 Timothy Somers