Saturday, May 28, 2005


Gregarious maggot masses
Armed with mouth hooks
Prepare to rake over the
Black bitter heart
The decaying flesh
Of a lifeless writer
Slumped over a desk littered
With recent rejection slips

The haunting eyes of Anubis,
Watch silently as the skilled embalmer
Works through the night, her fingers
Caressing the artery reverently, impregnating
The lifeless writer with aromatic substances
Masking the decomposition
repelling the maggot masses

The embalmers composition lies complete
With just a hint of sandalwood in the still air
Accompanied by his embalmer, hia wife
The dead writer dressed in formal day suit
Awaits Christian love and forgiveness
For the eulogy to be
Tenderly spoken
For the ceremonials to begin

A cell phone’s ring tone breaks the silence
As the writer’s wife
Plans a merry weekend with
A gregarious editor who
Having agreed to publish
The writer’s retrospective
Prepares to rake in royalties


Anita Marie Moscoso said...

This would make the best Blues be sung by a voice shaped by to many late nights...

Anita Marie

Edwina Peterson Cross said...

Anita Marie, you are so right! I love it . . . both the blues song and the complete thinking outside the box that allowed you to come to that conclusion. Maybe we need to get Heather an agent in Nashville . . . anybody got a direct line to Tom Waits?

Heather Blakey said...

You two are just too funny! Blues indeed! Now I have many skills to pull out from under my apron but singing the blues ain't one of them darlings. Mind you, my voice is pretty much like gravel so it could be a winner, very late at night, when everyone is so drunk they cannot discern the difference. As for Tom Waits...well if someone does have a direct line I could have my arm twisted. LOL