A man wracked with sobriety
leaves his own funeral,
drifts in beside me as I wake,
he steals my sleep
and I read his soul in act of vengeance
like a river impatient with its stones;
he is hollow,
like skin fitting him
because his mother told it so, and dying therefore fakes his headline acts -
they're in it together, there's little I can do except mock,
feel a little spite.
Nuances like these are notable in wood
more so than stiffs escaping funerals,
the wood must be reliable,
of course,
ordered from companies who say
"So and So and Sons - Est. 1864"
on their doors; having sons is a great deal in a trade like this
and protects eternity from the bony-fingers of oblivion
- if -
these sons stay clear of booze and women faster on the draw.
Several bars in town order stocks from such companies,
their counter-wood has a ring like a church-bell on Sunday,
a bright Protestant hope, an urge for Mondays,
tea and sandwiches for Max Weber, as he waits outside,
door-bell singing.
December's fields are weighted-down like apologies in snow,
as my friend tilts on a passing bend,
dead people usually don't apologise.
I expect less from him,
Heaven and Hell does their bidding for them
no later than December, however,
a month for dreams that turn
to water and to air, guilt and salvation
lagging right behind an ore-bound siding
near Dunfermline Queen Margaret.
When I died and went to Heaven
first thing I noticed was all my friends were roasting in Hell,
I wept for days, then in despair pulled a flick knife on St. Peter,
hoping for expulsion - so went the ticket collector's story
leaving Dunfermline Queen Margaret.
I was hiding in the toilets before he arrived,
the ghosts around me could deal with him.
So they did -
So I thank them in this song,
pray like a good Christian should
for their beautiful
sacred souls.
leaves his own funeral,
drifts in beside me as I wake,
he steals my sleep
and I read his soul in act of vengeance
like a river impatient with its stones;
he is hollow,
like skin fitting him
because his mother told it so, and dying therefore fakes his headline acts -
they're in it together, there's little I can do except mock,
feel a little spite.
Nuances like these are notable in wood
more so than stiffs escaping funerals,
the wood must be reliable,
of course,
ordered from companies who say
"So and So and Sons - Est. 1864"
on their doors; having sons is a great deal in a trade like this
and protects eternity from the bony-fingers of oblivion
- if -
these sons stay clear of booze and women faster on the draw.
Several bars in town order stocks from such companies,
their counter-wood has a ring like a church-bell on Sunday,
a bright Protestant hope, an urge for Mondays,
tea and sandwiches for Max Weber, as he waits outside,
door-bell singing.
December's fields are weighted-down like apologies in snow,
as my friend tilts on a passing bend,
dead people usually don't apologise.
I expect less from him,
Heaven and Hell does their bidding for them
no later than December, however,
a month for dreams that turn
to water and to air, guilt and salvation
lagging right behind an ore-bound siding
near Dunfermline Queen Margaret.
When I died and went to Heaven
first thing I noticed was all my friends were roasting in Hell,
I wept for days, then in despair pulled a flick knife on St. Peter,
hoping for expulsion - so went the ticket collector's story
leaving Dunfermline Queen Margaret.
I was hiding in the toilets before he arrived,
the ghosts around me could deal with him.
So they did -
So I thank them in this song,
pray like a good Christian should
for their beautiful
sacred souls.
John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.
He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.
Practically a surprise in every stanza.
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