Child of Belial

Slow was the first pulsation of this heart
but fast would its thrum be through life.
Mother read in the stars on the chart
that we were to embrace you as eventide
embraces the light that is soon to depart.
You unsettled us with the fixated yellow grin:
we knew sanity and your smile were apart
from the moment you held the bluntest knife
and set into mother’s skin a most demonic art.

For Gramps

Today there's a new bumble bee
hovering over the speckled daisies. 
Small wings play soft music to me
that sing the same words you did. 
Those songs still croon in the breeze
through the stripey bumble bee fuzz.

Tonight there's a new shining star
shimmering beside the smiling moon. 
It glistens brightly against the stillness
watching calmly over the world below. 
I swear that star has a laughing grin
from seeing the same pranks you pulled. 

Tomorrow there'll be something new
so familiar that it feels almost borrowed. 
The gentle reminder that you're near. 
You reflect in our features in the mirror; 
In our kindest deeds to our neighbour;
In the hearts that'll remember you forever. 

Sea Mist

Soon you will be washed upon the sands of time as a memory left on the tongue tips of the angels left behind. Your physical form will be gradually reborn from the glistening teardrops we’ll cry in chorus as your body is bid to the eternal dust. You’ll slip into the arms of family through the gap of our knowing and feeling; welcomed and soothed by the same loving presence you too once grieved. All the fear you feel in the shallows of this vast ocean will no longer matter as you begin to drift between the folding waves of a final sleep. Goodbyes won’t be whispered into the sea, but the thickening mist will nod, on my behalf, that we’ll meet again someday.

Pink Gin Ballet

Am I to be poured of cold glass
and dance with death in soft pink gin?
We'll spin upon a tailor's pin
wearing the tarnish of brass.

Bewitched in gaze, sunk in morass,
I tread both lines in mortal skin.
Am I to be poured of smashed glass
and dance soft with death in pink gin?

Reaper smiles sickeningly crass
rapping bone on pondering chin
with a heavy sigh of chagrin.
This moment of visit must pass.
I am poured out of cold smashed glass
while death dances soft in pink gin.

Corners

No one digs in the corners
Where the smell festers deepest.
Their shovels just clang and clack
On the crumbled poured cement
That’s broken in the centre
Because it lifts easier
that grey concrete rubble bow

Where the walls join together,
Connected to the cold ground:
Below the record player,
That knew only but one song
At entirely the wrong speed:
Is where she lays, still waiting,
Still wasting, still wailing out.

No one will ever find her.
The ammonia stings their eyes
Should they wander close enough
To spot the fresh plaster marks,
Or the abandoned teddy
Adorned with a bow, alas,
No one digs in the corners.