Tuesday, 29 December 2015

Rituals of Grief






































“Three Women at the Spring” by Pablo Picasso (1921)


It’s always people who are sad over people who couldn’t care less
I could spoil their sadness with my trouble if I were selfish enough  
I would turn the depression into a competition
And crown myself the winner
Of frowns and folding foreheads and sour faces
Fortunetellers leech off facial expressions until they meet their clients
Masked and miserable
What constructs the architecture of a mask, that, once worn
Eyes are inside the sockets of marble balconies
A mask is a container for tears

Wipe softly away the sorrow to spare the salt done bloody
Water will almost dilute with anything
Blood spoils almost everything 
Bar the blood donation
The bags that contain our blood are holy
But blood is not even red
It’s the purple swallowing of cheerful wine
Boast charity
On plasma screens
The weatherman is the only hope of foreseeing the future

Nurse swollen bodies in cotton candy and hurdle over clouds ten feet long
Five feet wide
For the giant they have a special coffin
The giant doesn’t want to live too long
Doesn’t want to be so old he can’t remember how old he is
It will rain during the giant’s funeral even in summer it shall rain
Or else
He’ll never rest
In peace 
The music plays when they slam the lid