Joy So you thought death had neared? How it swirled in the caskets, hissing juice. You licked your chops, drunken bastard that you are. The sofa cushions were oppressed under your weight, As you flicked from channel to channel, free hand fondling the emptied sacks. Something sick in your nature rejoiced. No one was going to bomb your SoHo dump But the possibility heated your blood to a fraction below boiling point. I picture you sticking your head out of the window, (matted hair stuck to a scalp that hasn't seen soap for weeks) Hazy eyes scanning the distance for falling bodies. 'Are the skirts of the women going up?' You pat yourself On the back: such thoughts are the artist's domain. Were you insane, or truly gifted I might forgive the foulness of uttering, the eczema of turbid thoughts. Dog barks thrill at first then grow tiresome like the sight of your unkempt beard. When the following day failed to bring more mayhem, the black dogs were back at the door, scratching the wood with their paws. White pages are good at darkening black moods. You did not have to wait for long. Just under a month to be exact. I see the sofa slumped, the remote buttons slick with takeout grease. It may as well be 91 again, 'Death is art' or some other lump of wisdom tumbles out of your mouth in spit-dabbled, Single-malt whispers. Hassan Abdulrazzak
If you've any comments on this poem, Hassan Abdulrazzak would be pleased to hear from you.