Le Mort

Of the senses, which play upon the stage
With wooden sword and cardboard tense
We roll with the waves and fight the age
That seeks to destroy our fragile sense.

In this garden of bliss, where languid lies
The orchid full of bloom and scent of flies
As we pluck this delicate bud for our own
The crows heads pique, the hour has flown.

And the chapel bell does heathenly ring
For us as the procession does begin
Of men and women both unite
As sable flag, in the breeze takes flight

When god’s breath, our capes takes hold
That breeze will suddenly kiss cold.
And chill us to where we quietly lay
Upon a bed, of lust and hay.

Soaked with life and more
My arms clasped ‘round a whore
Who within that longing hour
And under the sun, will seem dour.

With tawdry cheeks and painted lips
She kisses with a breath that would sink ships.
And runs her broken hand down
To touch that organ that had pleased the town.

As the hay groaned in tiny screams
I take my mind to sunken dreams.
To breathe away that plastic sense
Which payment gives no recompense.