BLUE BEADS

December 8, 2009

BLUE BEADS

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns

The blue beads tumbled to the floor.
The steaming corpse rolled over on the cool steel gurney.
Good friends will betray you, at the drop of a hat.
Pink plush curtains hang around,
Bored out of their skull.

The poetess talks about sex a lot.
Perhaps, like many attractive people,
She doesn’t really get enough.

I picked up the silver beads,
But they scurried, once again, to the parquet floor.
I must say, I’m really tired of it all.

Is death a pleasant place?
Are there rules and regulations?
Do they speak English, in the Afterlife?
Do they even speak at all?
Can you get an erection?
Do you have a body, as we know it?
I’ve heard you’re just a beam of light.
Don’t forget your sunglasses.

Is there coffee?
I hope you don’t have to audition, endlessly,
When you cross over to the other side.
Do you think there might be acres and acres of fresh amethyst,
Sparkling in the blinding light?
Do people criticize your poetry,
When you pass over?

I fell down into the hole.
Or was I pushed?
It’s not a pleasant place to be.
I’m sure you know that, already.

The feeling of smooth, satin, hairless skin,
On your fingertips,
Is glorious to the touch.
My tongue caresses the curve of your buttocks.
My hand strokes your face.
Jimmy Stewart sometimes bugs my ass.
I fell headfirst into the downward spiral.
She wanted cocaine burning up her nose
And a glass of hot Scotch chugging down her gullet.

The blue beads cascaded to the floor.
The perfect necklace came apart.
He wanted good health and warm weather,
And enough sex to satisfy his desires.

Is there music after death?
The blazing sound of a jazz saxophone?
Top 40 hits of the macabre,
With ghouls and ghosties and creepy-crawlies?

There probably is no copulation,
For there’s no need to propagate the species.
I’ll try to forgive some of the people who betrayed me.
After all, they’re fucking crazy.

What happened to all those beads?
Silver and blue, silver and blue.

No, the glass is half full.
Stop thinking of yourself as a victim.
It’s not very glamorous.
The crazies have always been drawn to me.

I’ll pick up the beads and continue.
Make a new necklace and brew some Caf-Lib coffee substitute.
Roll over, sweetheart, it’s time to play.
You know, I really am crazy about you.