Death, I’ve smelled the retch of your fetid breath
in laundromats of lost humanity.
I hear your preachings on my daily trail
dum dum choirs sung to a running man’s back.
Some spend their lives in long hallelujahs
or behead us all with fanaticism:
We who dare dissent, who know not to know,
don’t deny the daunting and certain depths of our graves.
Gathered swells of tumbling bells will chuckle
at passings of them, hellbound for sassing.
But as there is comfort in religion
so there is in the husbandry of life.
Morbid wild hair I stroke, pockmarked cheeks I brush
I press my fingers to her lips and whisper: “Hush.”
Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz