D.K.'s Blues

Painting by Christopher Reilley

D.K.'S BLUES

One of the few perks
of being dead
is no longer having to fight
biology.

No more beard, glasses,
or waste,

or piss,
just rot.

I really don’t think too much,
no specific memories or ideas.
Vestigial knowledge
of how things work;
rusty cogs of cogency
gearing down.

Don’t talk much,
even though I feel I have a lot to say.
Inside, I build scaffolds of words
to bring my thoughts
to cathedral ceiling heights,
but when I open my mouth,
out comes a brackish goo, ungodly rot.

Is it part of the
mechanics of being dead,
or do we just have nothing to say
that should be heard
by the Quick?

Is the disconnect

between mind and body

all that is left of

the humanity that I lost?

Let me tell you, eating people sucks.

Death had released me,

but then Hunger conquered me.
My hunger is not
a matter of stomach or mouth,
but is instead
a cellular scream;
I can feel me deflating,
a heavy, weighted, sagging sensation.

I try self restraint,
I swear I do,
but I just cannot help
but go for the sweet stuff -
the sizzle-pop life buzz
of the brains.
My own head clears,
lights up,
feels less dead.

For a little while.

I steal what they have
to replace what I lack.

Hunger is the real monster,

not me.

Being dead is not so bad,
I’ve learned to live with it.

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HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

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Shared with those spook-tacular folks over at DVerse Poets for a seasonal OLN!

©2013 Christopher Reilley 

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