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