death

lines in a cemetery

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

cemeteries are strange
graves in a line
neatly arranged
with slab designs
names, dates
hollow phrases
stones like weights
to freight the spaces

in other beliefs
they hang your bones
for light relief
in catacombs
tourists take snaps
of skeleton preachers
skulls in stacks
crosses of femurs

either way
life’s all you’ve got
one day here
the next day not
so dig me a bed
lay me down gently
a tree overhead
its roots to hold me

le Cabaret du Néant

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I fully meant to write a poem
about the horrible direction the world was going
and honestly people I did my best
but ended up reading about the Cabaret of Nothingness
a niche little venue in old Montmartre
for jaded Parisians with a taste for the macabre
(just next door to the Cabaret of the Sky
with the Cabaret of the Inferno pretty close by)
the maitre D spoke in sombre tones
under chandeliers fashioned from human bones,
a skeleton sat in the corner with a pipe
while monks drifted round asking what you’d like
cocktails and juices, freshly squeezed
everything named after a poison or disease
and I looked at the photo from 1920
at the bowler-hatted and pearl-roped gentry
sitting quite grimly and wondering why
they didn’t buy tickets for the Cabaret of the Sky
and it suddenly struck me everyone in that pic
would all be dead now and it gave me the ick
like – one minute you’re cool but the next thing you know
you’re a fading image in a pepper ghost show
and the moral, please? I hear you ask
if death’s on the billboard – just walk past

returning to my roots

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

it was finally quiet on the clinical desk
the end of the day with nothing much left
we were slumped around it talking about death

I remembered the chats I had with mum
about life and death and what you become
she wanted hope; I tried to give her some

but it’s hard when you don’t believe in spirit
just every natural thing has a limit
and the really magical thing is physics

her proof of course was the ghost of Fred
who appeared one night at the foot of her bed
and THAT’S the first she knew he was dead

anyway, we often chatted about this
reincarnation versus fiery pits
we’d always end on good terms with a kiss

I was shopping in Sainsbury’s (the vegetable aisle)
when my sister rang to say she’d died
in bed that night with the dog by her side

so after all those talks about maggots
angels and spirits, atoms and planets
I lost the connection weighing carrots