Am I actually dying? Oh, f—
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2016
And there are really many reasons to be mad about Tony…
Thank you, Tony…
Our end began with weaponised words,
bashing the chest like a thousand rolling-pins
on sourdough heart and bone.
Of course, you had a dim foreboding.
Crunch of parchment. Red saffron underfoot.
A marble chopping stone.
I plated myself up for disappointment.
A corrugated brow. Cold hearth and home.
You meant for me to die alone!
You always were flippant and presumptuous.
You estimated our life by eye
and borrowed a swollen loan.
Arugula words were all I tasted from you.
You were east of the sun then west of the moon.
I hardly knew where to point the bone.
Blah… The next pathetic maggot holds forth on stars…
You fought for that last stool on the cheap row
and lost a stage with the vacant throne!
Fine then. I know when I’m royally licked.
Someone gets me a psychotherapist.
Vagina dentata! My ardour has blown!
Lick-time is over. My Symplegades clash.
The dry pillar of Pompey engorges.
The end begins… and ends. Bring a blank die-stone!