We live with morose ghosts
We live with morose ghosts
between our birth & death –
shitty hauntings – a recall of
what-will-be slips – See our
lines of supernumeraries – I
slid [in my tuxedo] across a
stage & a princess danced &
my heart broke [not for her]
& then a death in Paris – I’m
not a royalist – nor a lover of
common ghosts [or blue-ish
blood] – A crowd threw their
finest funeral flowers across
a hearse [its wipers swept at
every dead five quid stem] –
We’ll see ghosts in our sleep
[we’ll dream of sinister lives
‘til we stop supping on love]