(Life’s Pleas and Questions)
To start conversing beneath the soil,
watching death through a kaleidoscope,
the way it was lifted by the movie directors
and transplanted onto a movie screen.
In the opacity of the grave, there is water,
and gifts from the deceased one’s kinfolk
there is a lid which each of the departed –
once their eyes get used to the darkness,
that is – knows how to open.
Such suicidal maudlinism
from a vainglorious extraordinarium,
contemplating life and scribing
Could it be said that you have managed retain
your catchpenny vanity even here and now?
I was inhumed with a hoard of quills and ink
Hence a misdirected bullet
I cannot bear to bid adieu sans the drama,
brought glad tidings to the world.
Extolling the sperm of Schiller and Whitman
O mine mister man O’Neil!
You grazing on the Irish pastures;
your entire life you wanted to be a simple shepherd,
and detach yourself from the homeland
that made you dedicate a stylized,
though dull prose dealing with wandering, wanderers, garbage collectors on an odyssey, Odysseys on the garbage heap of the world, you whose mother wanted you to be a priest!
You celebrated nicotine addicts
thinking I don’t belong among you
you who had your landed estates,
printing presses and titles,
oh how outraged you are by my novel
which would, had it ever been written,
outshine all of those burning thoughts
brought to you by a gust of wind,
which you fruitlessly call inspiration.
A seemingly impenetrable wall.
to the very end of the Earth and back.
the Earth is the Earth.
it belongs to the Living more than it belongs to the Dead.
their voices freed of the dark tone of cymbals
caused by the loamy walls
Reverberations lag behind the initial stroke,
rippling through the stagnant air
in the vast cave of the famous dead’s burning thoughts.
hordes of extras are shouting from the darkness;
murmurs, muttering, coughing and disapprovals
are heard, mixing with hysterical laughter
coming from the Department of Music&Theatre.
Startup the lights, antagonists!
let there be Music!
the Dance of Death commenced to the sound
of a cacophonous piano
brilliantly commingling variations to Salieri.
as the tempo accelerated unwaveringly,
Mozart kept flooring the piano pedals
as if they belonged on a priceless car.
his diminutive skull and compact hands
alternately rising and falling,
he guzzled from an empty bottle,
cackling, basking in the luminescence
of lanterns supplied by the archangels,
spilling over the entire gambling hall.
Clapping their metacarpals and phalanges
this crepitation lent rhythm to the eerie waltz,
fellow artists, write!
compose an ode, dancing to the rhythm with such skill!
get your bones clapping and your pens scraping,
smear the ink across your cranial bones!
here we are, performing for you the Dance of Death –
perform for us the story of a life!
bring out your musty quills,
ladies and gentlemen and with those marvellous
brains of yours – laden with letters, quills, brushes and paints
as they all undoubtedly are – highlight the wax figures’ tragedies.
grant them minuscule lampion houses to cram their meek lives into, dress them in patchwork quilts or golden harem pants;
make them heroes or cowards, thieves, traitors,
moralists and/or decent folk.
The Death’s Replica:
Let your quills glide as we,
borne by this eerie waltz, glide and lend rhythm.
we entertain you, resembling those models who,
weary of posing,
start pitching apples at each other
in order to keep their spirits awake;
and thus, seduced by the lyres
and the naked bodies wrapped in rugs
covered in Persian patterns,
those beauties maintain their perfect
comeliness devoid of boredom!
Hark the two ribalds!
‘Tis no dance, – ’tis no art, but a mass that accompanies our toils.