The Consummation

Death has never felt so soft,
As a hush upon the face,
A kiss upon the back
Of the mind,
A lulling numbness,
To calm dis-ease,
And silence.

Death has never sounded so soft,
As the fourth movement
Of a composer
Who wrote to drink,
And drank to write
Away his loathe
Of self and life.

Death, I say, has never tasted so fine,
As a glorious banquet
To end the deprivation
Of nourishment
In mothering sleep-
Who lines the brain
In cushions of velvet dirt,
Suffocating bliss,
And velvet cake.
An ignorance unlike any other.

Death, I do insist, has never looked so sexy,
A fine film of fog,
In a bog or perhaps a lake,
That gains in obscurity-
Gains as the morning advances-
As my promiscuous lover-
As he envelopes my lips,
In hunger,
In an uncontrollable haste,
To take me,
Have me,
Wrap me,
In a tenuous embrace
Round unclothed flesh
And protruding ribs.

To fester and seep inside,
My hollow crevices,
Of body and mind.
To claim me,
Fiendishly,
In eternal union.