Cemeteries
Cemeteries are like unfurnished bedrooms with bold walls,dirty ballroom floors and pictures of obscene idols,
pretending to be innocent 90 year olds.
'Isn't it a common knowledge, that every innocent
Has a shadowy side, filled with promiscuous tramps and dried-up sperm?
A side where cockroaches dare to crawl under pillows
And kill their spouses with heavy chainsaws?'
Seeing the gravestones sticking out like imbeciles –
Not talking, not comforting – just sticking out
and torturing those, who are stupid enough
to cry, on top of someone else's house!
'Prozac-addict! - how about giving the worms some freedom?
No need to remind them of hurricanes
By stepping over their roofs.'
So what if you dear one lies under that tomb?
At least the bugs are still moving their own kidneys.
The earthly surface of the magnificent death –
Makes one wonder: does it really walk on midnight?
If so, then shouldn't I take my clothes off
And lie down in a field of daisies?
'Waiting, waiting – it's as if the clock arrows
Stopped beating forever.
Running, screaming – relieves, but doesn't re-live
what's lost or never existed.'
Cemeteries are luxurious places, beautiful
As the cathedrals in Rome;
Are pathetically decorated rest homes,
Like those, where elders die in their soup.
'There're the gravestones again – staring,
As if they were imbalanced, starving children
With hollow-eyed-faces – observing, desiring,
To be fed with more souls spitted out by loneliness.'
Look at heaven, vomiting all over the stones,
All over the mentioned daisies, that are begging for water
In rags and without leaves (is God on vacation?),
Look at the pierced couple who are fucking
Behind someone's silly old grandfather.
Cemeteries are forgotten places, rude institutions,
Residences for empty scalps of laundry-housewives
And those, who once were sharply mouthed cynics...
Poetry by Francesca Georgia Luca
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Written on 2006-12-15 at 20:02
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