For Kathy

And so I walk in the Valley of the shadow of Death. Tragedies plaguing my heavy heart like headless horsemen perched on blood stained saddles. The light of my incandescent love completely obscured by the impenetrable darkness. Bloodthirsty vultures riding the impregnable maudlin night, thirsty for gangrenous, infected flesh. Death bells ringing in my ears like tetanus amplified on a dog.

Wounded narcissi in full bloom, why won’t you fight with me? Ah, I see. Youre heavy heart is wont to give up. So I pick a cigarette out of my half depleted pack of Malboro Lights. The minature flame from my Dupont precipitated a fleeting moment of light, before being quickly smouldered out by the stale, sepulchral air. You used to walk beside me: we did everything together.

We’ve carpentered my mahogany coffin, with mother of pearl trimmings and platinum plated hinges and crystals adorning the panels. An activity so trite in literature but as derigeur as rigour mortis in human relationships of the tangible world. But that is the last thing we ever did, or will do, together. Or is it?

I wait patiently for a miracle from the pathetic heavens, for the long awaited angel to descend to my aid. But the past has been archived and i await my judgement.

It is amoral and devoid of integrity to give up on something so much has been invested in. The horror we feel in the wilful destruction of a human relationship reflects our shared inarticulate sense of the intrinsic important of each of these dimensions of investment. We are at the edge of Life, would you still not fight with me?

You still wouldn’t, you were taken away.

And I lay awake in my coffin, pending the time when Death would claim me as his own. I hope he arrives soon. Before Life resuscitates my will. Or you do. Whichever.