Open Casket, City Centre

His eyes are closed
Though I knew to look
So candidly through
Pink crepe paper skin, raised liquorice veins
To see those restless, eloquent eyes
Earnest moons of immortality
“Don’t talk to me” her screeching teeming
With her bloodshot, swollen eyes
Vodka could not pacify
But jealous rages could
She’d often tear into a scene
And make a fuss
And start a fight
Meanwhile we’d sleep as bubbles crawled
Beneath his pale and pallid skin
The night opening up to us
Streetlights yawning over asphalt
Pavement, stone
And sticky blood.
“He’s in there, go make your peace”
She strung, from years ago
Still he lies
Motionless, taciturn,
Empty; less a soul
In calculated sleep,
His body rests
(Shrouded in such earthly linen
Explosions red, turmoil
Seeping through chaste cotton;
Puncture wounds, like old nosebleeds)
How can sun shine in Manchester, now?
His eyes still closed
Though I knew to think
So honestly through
This mess, this awful chaos
And see that peaceful, twinkling
Parade of his mortality.

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This is a poem about a bizarre love triangle. A mistress sees her lover’s body in his coffin after a suicide, with his widow in attendance – both women knowing what the other one meant to him. Cheery.


  • GuyAmazed
    GuyAmazedover 5 years ago

    You have a knack for illuminating the diffficult to look at things swimming below the surface - write, write, write - good skill and good luck : )

    And BTW, thanks for the favoritings

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