Sunday, May 1, 2011

soirée macabre

Salute! no answers and the end of all asking!

Now let's all touch our goblets of nightshade and drink.
Then sing to the shocked moon veiled in superstitions.
Yes, we're already ghosts so why dread the grave?
We'll lock arms with lucky imps and skate on thin ice,
where winds catch our throes of all peevish caution.

Now mingle and mix and dance if you know how.
Even if you don't know that might be much better!

Dash all your pocket watches down on granite markers.
What better way to wake up those without bitter time?

Oh, by all means. If you must, go ahead. I won't smile
with too much wrinkled irony on my lips that like kissing!
Go ahead, if you must. At least until you shrug it off.
Go ahead and build a world until teeth fly from gears!

Until then the rest of us will compose morbid ditties
and dance like lunatics on the eve of incarceration.

Everything is trapped inside a ponderous bubble.
We're already floating and we don't even know it.
Let's float on this one night like moods of old martyrs.
I'll fill up your goblet till the night staggers laughing!

* * *

Crows crack the startled morning clouds,
and fragments scatter down into dells,
mixing with river mist and hermit smoke.

Last night was extreme and worth every minute.
Once every year, it is good to drink nightmares
and scream at bones beneath our strange skin.

Copyright 2011 -- Tim Buck

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