Postings for "Dia de los Muertes"

If I think this is not all there is, I see death as a constant, if not sometimes annoying, companion.
In this world , at least, it has the last laugh. But what about later? I feel comfortable poking fun at it.

"My Death" (by J. Brel) sung by David Bowie, 1973

My death waits like an old roue
so confident I'll go his way
whistle to him
and the passing time...
my death waits like a bible truth
at the funeral of my youth
weep loud for that -
and the passing time..
my death waits like
a witch at night
as surely as our love is bright
let's not think about the passing time

But whatever lies behind the door
there is nothing much to do...
angel or devil, I don't care
for in front of that door...
there is you.

My death waits like a beggar blind
who sees the world through an unlit mind
throw him a dime
for the passing time...
my death waits there between your thighs,
your cool fingers will close my eyes
lets think of that and the passing time
my death waits to allow my friends
a few good times befor it ends so

let's drink to that and
the passing time..but what ever lies behind the door,
there is nothing much to do
angel or devil i dont care
for in front of that door.. there is you
my death waits there among the leaves
in magicians mysterious sleeves
rabbits and dogs and the passing time
my death waits there among the flowers
where the blackest shadow, blackest shadow cowers
lets pick lilacs for the passing time
my death waits there,in a double bed
sails of oblivion at my head
so pull up the sheets against the passing time
but whatever lies behind the door
there is nothing much to do
angel or devil....i dont care
for in front of that door
there is........................
thank you.












Requiescat

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone
She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,

All my life's buried here,
Heap earth upon it.

Oscar Wilde