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Death in Vegas “Dirge”

Life is little more than a metaphor for death
Drinking pretense through crazy straw until our lips be cleft
Left to our own devices as ISIS plan our funerals
Place carnations at our chapels of rest, intent to wrap up sooner

Suffering turns as we burn in our beds
Turning blind eyes to the media lies
Blink and we might miss the sunrise entirely, deprived by the mushroom cloud paraded overhead
Prodding the hive of activity denied by trying our luck at filling up on daily bread

If life is little more than a metaphor for death
Then what of the door in the floor?
Is that shortcut to the ceiling?
Could it be this mini skirt is just too damn revealing?
And what of all the green tea in Darjeeling?

Metaphorically speaking, do we speak for the minority?
Majority aside, do we possess the authority to question a lobotomy that makes for spotless minds?
If life is little more than a metaphor for death
Then would it not be wise to break our necks to give our mouths a well-earned rest?

Hold phlegm close to our chest then to hack up all we back up just to stack up on the apathy too slack to back inaction
Jack up on the cold hard facts of unpaid tax and off-shore bank transactions

Sanctioned by the gutter press and snapped uncompromisingly by paps
Sold to highest bidder for nothing less than five fat figures
Tying both hands as the man unhands the purse strings just to write them out blank cheques that bounce the second they think bigger

If I do pull on this trigger
Will it then go click?
Do you have to be a Russian to make head rush of roulette?
Place your bets and don’t stress out the cooler
As the cold war evidently ain’t worth dying for

If life is metaphor and precious little more besides then this bitter pill of mine is well within its civil rights to disgrace itself and lace itself in figurative cyanide
Just to kiss me back to life
Clench a fist and throw a peace sign
Massaging the stars to bring them crashing to the skyline
Signing off design flaws as it underwrites the clause for holy wars no longer totally worth crying for

If life is little more than a metaphor for death
Then my final first request is that they bury me smiling as life is what I make it and I make a full confession
I was faking

Every time my soul was taken, I was giving less than zero
For I read somewhere the world’s in need of heroes
And I’m quite prepared to care enough to take this to the crowdshare snuff
Calling bluff on my last breath and hanging tough on life for rites of death
From nothing left, we build and real gone kids can spill their guts again

Run naked through acid rain
Break free from our flaccid chains
Get hard, get wet
Or better yet, get wise and clench our inner thighs
With eyes on prize and hearts on fire
Satin scarves, thigh highs or even higher
Making just sufficient of provisions to retire on

Time it marches on through the timeless art of metaphor
Questioning this red-letter event
Got this gun against my temple and forget what it was for now
Guess that means I’m all cried out and spent
As this life is no more mine than ours to celebrate to death

Metaphorically speaking, I speak for the minority
Not only one of me you see
Twin flames bereft of ceiling
Sealing up the door in floor while drinking all the tea and sympathy within Darjeeling

Lifting up our mini skirt, revealing that which lies beneath
With teeth, we bite
For better or worse should curse then double cross the blessing
And through the art of metaphor
We welcome one and all to our procession

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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© Copyright: Rivers of Grue™ Shadow Spark Publishing™

1 Comment

  1. We fans of the Grue and the true can’t wait for your second coming! Be brutal, be brutally honest, be brutally beautiful Keeper and Rabbit.

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