Sunday, January 12, 2014

Month of poetry #11: A Natural Death

And there's poor Mr Barton
very old and very relaxed
only dead in there perhaps
two weeks but if you asked
he couldn't really say not least because
he's dead.

Winter's chill and isolation will mute
the smell
and really he does give a
tremendous performance of being alive
blending into bed with all the
activity of sleep.

Natural evacuations are nothing to
be embarrassed about
early on a hot flush triggered some
little visitors
whose curious feet played laptop football
near his dark zipper.

The roots start to cradle his
forest coffin
those mutinous dreadlocks worming
like sea anemones
about his toes
gentle vines winding silky soliloquies
in his hairy ears.

First the walls will warp
and shift like a deck of cards
then the roof will follow.
In its own time, the body of Mr Barton will
quietly turn
to skin on the wind, eager with its
promise of invisibility
or flight.

Includes suggestions from:

@JayJayCee1: a hot flush triggered
@sleepingdingo: silky soliloquies
@ernmalleyscat: then the roof will follow in its own time (Vincent van Gough, letter to Theo 21/3/1883)
@matchtrick: invisibility or flight
@spikelynch: laptop football
@jazir1979: those mutinous dreadlocks
@timsterne: a tremendous performance of being alive (Helen Garner, The Spare Room)
@sulphura: and there's poor Mr Barton (Midsomer Murders)

No comments: