death poetry writing

corpses and bloat

his soul was the river thames

during the 18th century

floating fetid

full of shite


corpses and bloat

his mouth was a hellscape

hieronymus bosch’s

early work

his voice was the sound

of two bullet trains colliding

his face

strongly suggested

the need for burial

and yet i stupidly

loved him

the way one comes to love

an old dog



who frequently pisses the rug

you smile from time to time remembering him

but how glad you are he’s gone