He is buried with his blonde guitar. In the avenues of roses
all manner of mourners mourn, consoling one another,
armed full of phrases wet with meaning and cliché.



I cannot weep because I do not believe his music.

The soil hits the coffin while the deadpan priest
drifts off into an adolescent, summer romance.

​

In the church, the bells are calling for attention.
The elongated hearses lie in rows beside the noise;

they are dogs hungry for bones:

 

​

mechanical lust is still lust to be burnt.
When the last one has died we might be left
with metaphors and sonnets to strum.

​

Or perhaps the void really exists.