Epigasm

A black poem, blurring the line between sex & death

At the funeral, the cold shrivelling the raven hair

Over her skull,

Stood at the end of the coffin and thought:

‘You can never have enough sex.’

A saline stream came down her face.

Beautiful in the silence, wet, lips parted but

Breathless.

 

The coffin borne before by him who watched

Stiffly, who longed to prize back the Widow’s hood

And kiss those downturned lips,

Who, beyond her realm and at a loss,

But whatever grief came felt he must

And would feel release at nothing less,

Though he knows you can never have enough sex.

 

She could not see, an ablution was mummed,

Her mind had flown to the last time when,

Under cloth, that body bore down, the black pressure

Smothered her, and no longer space around,

She was joined to the earth.

And with a soundless cry she thought:

‘You can never have enough sex.’

 

He witnessed this, his spirit flagged,

Suffocated behind a formless wall

Which separates eternally him from her,

He concedes defeat and mourns the loss

Of peace.

And, piece by piece his reason rots

His distended heart’s unconscious notes:

‘You can never have enough death.’

Author's Note

If you like to probe the darker corners maybe this one's for you. Let me know if you like it, let me know if not.

Reviews

[Moon]

It has a beauty to it , though it is very dark

[Daniel Eaves]

Thanks dreamer. Yes, I went to some dark corners for this one (although I was sure to thoroughly enjoy it). I haven't written much darker, not that I'm going to publish anyway!

[Moon]

Why are you not interesting in publishing ?

[Moon]

*interested

[Daniel Eaves]

Well, some things are cathartic to write, but no good to share I would say. I wrote a lot of poetry, for example, during a heavy break-up about three years ago, but I don't enjoy reading that sort of self-obsessed stuff, so I guess that's why I wouldn't post it.

[Moon]

Oh , that makes sense