Archive
05/10/11
Naming It
I've been kicking around the idea of addressing it as Mr. Death, But I don't dare dignify that hubristic "it" With such a respectful moniker, nickname, appellation, sobriquet.
Indeed, it would be a more existentially appropriate personification To call that nasty, third-person abstraction A big, fat, hairy asshole or nasty son-of-a-grizzly-bear bitch,
Decidedly more fitting to label it St. Mark's Square pigeon shit, Public fuckup numbers one through six hundred sixty-six, Crass, fascist, classless-act bastard, dead-end deadeye Dickhead.
In the best of all worlds without end, I'd have no extreme-unction occasion, no el moley rachamim reason, To venture even a salutation toward such a diehard-on tyrant,
Since the entirely absurd idea of passing away, buying the farm, Never would have occurred to the Maker; He simply wouldn't have given birth to Jesus's unholy-ghost twin.
But as it is, I must at least devise some demeaningful title By which to denigrate that agent of decease, defunctness, That obnoxious buggerer, to distinguish it from all other bad "it"s.
To say that I disdain, spurn, contemn, despise, scorn death Would be an undertaker's craven gravedigger's understatement. Truth is, 103% percent of me, myself, and me is terrified of dying.
And yet, what options might I write, put, call, exercise, Other than to name it a cocksucking, mother-butt-fucking cunt? Oh...is that you knocking on my chest...Mr. Death...sir?
05/10/11
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