Luftwaffe Flies and Rosamunde

A fly

Circles

My bedroom

Much like
This
Stale humidity 
Lazily swirling from the
Cracked window breathing
Swampy heat
Flooding my ball sack
In sticky sweat,
Yet what I have come to hate
Isn't this 
Dogged heat
But the roaring buzzing
Engine of the 
Luftwaffe fly
There to
Remind me
That I'm 
Already 
Dead;
Fetid rottenness
Grizzled fat (misshapen)
Decaying into this
Aching mistress
Of a 
Mattress
Who gripes
Much louder than 
The bullet being chambered
Into my glock 45. 
Blam, blam!
Two holes 
Appear suddenly
As shell casings jingle
To the 
Spat dry wall
Dusts
Settling in
The crack of
Sunlight
On my windowsill
As my copy of
Dali's
Disintegration of the persistence of memory
Falls of its nail
And the record of
Schubert's 
Ständchen and rosamunde
Skips
  Skips
     Skips
   Sighing satisfied 
  Of new sounds as I finish
Clacking on the typewriter
"In the wake of the wreck of the medusa
Only these humble words are left now
To be a epitaph for the emptiness
That words can never capture when
Faced razor straight with one's mortality
And to remember that not every
Wanderer is lost,
For we all are heading to the fiddlers green."
Sinking into a bottle 
Of oaken charred 
Scotch
And laying back (half drunk)
Into this 
Sickly hot 
Lazy laden
Afternoon
Where wellsprings
Of ease
Soar within my eyelids
Like the frozen comets
Shooting across 
Vast unspoiled treks
Of total emptiness... 
When in that easy bliss
 
 
 
                               Bzzzzzzzzzzzz...
This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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