Death of a Tyrant
it will not rain on the day of your passing.
the ground will be the sort that will not yield a grave.
fountains will be turned off, men will arrange chairs
near sun-dusted windows, watching as if expecting
your black-suited procession to visit their streets.
you will refuse, of course, to fit into your coffin,
and they will have to anchor down the eclipses
of your eyelids over those outraged suns.
they will parade you, a gulliver,
with one hundred corpse-bearers taking turns,
because anyone within three feet of you
will sweat at the palms. there will be
junctions where citizens will want to spit
at your passing, but the memory of fines
will keep them mum. what an entourage
it will be, with the walkie-talkied mourners
throwing affidavits like hell money,
(for nobody but you could endure so much
damages in one lifetime), the sunglassed
actresses turning your acronym
into orgasms of mourning, and the cwo
sweepers blushing from behind.
and heading it all, a frisky lettuce-lion, to yap
at the invisible (unlawful?) gathering of hanged ghosts
who will weave for you, like a mute band of brothers,
a wreath of nooses, soiled as stillborn snakes.
your eulogy will be an edifice of fire,
sheer lightning in a cloudless sky,
(O architect of charisma, glorious historical weeper)
a baptism that will char dead trees into totems.
in life, your snort was a decree, your fart a sermon.
in death, a nation's silence will follow you to the grave.
only then will you know what it means to be exiled,
only then will they know what they have
been holding their breaths so long for:
the stench of your corruption,
and the clear, newborn coughing,
on a dawn-rinsed, tearless morning.
it will not rain on the day of your passing.
the ground will be the sort that will not yield a grave.
fountains will be turned off, men will arrange chairs
near sun-dusted windows, watching as if expecting
your black-suited procession to visit their streets.
you will refuse, of course, to fit into your coffin,
and they will have to anchor down the eclipses
of your eyelids over those outraged suns.
they will parade you, a gulliver,
with one hundred corpse-bearers taking turns,
because anyone within three feet of you
will sweat at the palms. there will be
junctions where citizens will want to spit
at your passing, but the memory of fines
will keep them mum. what an entourage
it will be, with the walkie-talkied mourners
throwing affidavits like hell money,
(for nobody but you could endure so much
damages in one lifetime), the sunglassed
actresses turning your acronym
into orgasms of mourning, and the cwo
sweepers blushing from behind.
and heading it all, a frisky lettuce-lion, to yap
at the invisible (unlawful?) gathering of hanged ghosts
who will weave for you, like a mute band of brothers,
a wreath of nooses, soiled as stillborn snakes.
your eulogy will be an edifice of fire,
sheer lightning in a cloudless sky,
(O architect of charisma, glorious historical weeper)
a baptism that will char dead trees into totems.
in life, your snort was a decree, your fart a sermon.
in death, a nation's silence will follow you to the grave.
only then will you know what it means to be exiled,
only then will they know what they have
been holding their breaths so long for:
the stench of your corruption,
and the clear, newborn coughing,
on a dawn-rinsed, tearless morning.
