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Silence Exile and Crumpets
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Tuesday, January 3rd, 2012

Time Event
It is a time of year when I think bleak thoughts

You cough and something tears. You drown in blood
and splatter walls with red. And then you fall
gone in five seconds. There's no use to call
or hit your silent chest. Dead where you stood.

And that's one way we die. Mumbling to sleep
talking in fragments. How you drove to Kent
or how to make cheese omelettes. We just rent
all that we are, no freehold, cannot keep

our bodies as they were when we were young
no matter how we fast, what pills we take.
Madness will fever us, our hearts will break,
we'll lose a finger, or an eye, or lung.

Breathe art each second, make or dance or sing.
Night comes forever stifling, silencing.
More bleak thoughts

First rot, then bones and rags of skin, then dust.
And never dream of ways you can escape
or spend eternity in your own shape.
The lords of Thebes and Memphis put their trust

in spices, bandages, the cunning knife
that takes out brains and eyes. They lay in death
two thousand years, but that's only a breath
by what they hoped for, hoped to live past life.

Some lordling poxed to deliquescent rot
takes their ground flesh as snuff, inhales it slow
and up his crumbling nostrils it will go
and all they were will trickle out as snot.

We pass to nothing. Then we blow away.
Our eighty years one with the fly's one day.

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