My Father died November 1979. He was in his early eighties; I was twenty four. That was far far too soon for me. No chance to establish a relationship man to man… That and grief that for a short moment was overwhelming… elemental.
I thought that his passing would be a watershed moment for me. That the shock of it would stop me being such a self-centered prick intent on chasing beautiful women every chance I could. Of course it didn’t, and realizing I wouldn’t change was a source of disappointment and resignation. Hence…
I am a mortician of words.
All in white I prepare.
Side by side
they are carefully laid
sterile and anxious to avoid any
semblance of death.
A practice in deception
a test of belief.
Here are these bodies without grace
shed of imperfection
their burgundy of blood pumped away
Turned it seems to perfect clay
No mystery or joy found in these pockets
no worn trousers shiny and sagging
veins filled with dye
We buried under Oak
on our shoulders the casket too light…
My father cast in unfamiliar ground
forever disturbed by the trains
that thunder past.
It seems I have learnt
Much has been promised in mourning
guilty faith whispered
and yet I am a deceiver still
There is a gap between the clouds and the plains.
I plan to meet in secret
a girl on the beach.
There is a spreading sickness
which has crept
insidious and insinuating into my bones.
Is this the thing that finally killed you?
I no longer take part.
I am a deceiver still.