Dying
The hotel looking down,
Better than its neighbours
With imitation wood grain,
Vague reproduction landscapes
And plastic gold Rococo lights.
Tonight, The Great Vanitas,
Las Vegas come to glitz a town.
To him, an evening like the others
And commonplace
In its well-tempered regularity.
The ballroom is wedged,
Tight with town worthies
And more.
The Great Vanitas,
Tuxedo and a crowd-pleasing sacrificial table.
Right lad, entertain us, then.
Give us the Smashing Of The Watch routine.
The assistant makes ready,
A priestess in spangles,
Painted to the point of perfect imperfection,
Foundation, lipstick and a shop front smile
Spread right across her face
In equal measure,
But she steps into the shadow and goes
After placing the watch, the hammer, the gesture.
The tinsel curtain,
It quivers at the fall of the glove on the hand
Of The Great Vanitas.
The complicit table,
Permitted by a hammer
(A melodramatic blow)
To host a violent marriage
Of bright, fragile handkerchief
And fragments of a precious wreck.
Yes, this one is terminal.
Escaping now,
Heading for the final act
And a boatman plays his role to a dark and other time and place.
The conjuror grins: what was he fearing?
Watching birds adorn their nests
With shreds of coloured, tattered silk
And coveted shards
Of glass and metal,
He is the audience
And they the performers.
He buries his face in the darkened sea.
At last, this is real.
Fish, in homage,
Kiss lifeless eyes
That gently rise and fall with the tide.
A hand as still as a picture
Drops the final glittering pieces,
The final offering,
To a vast and quiet deep.