Ge r a r d B e i r n e
Meditation #42: The Commotion of My Passing
I wait my turn on clumps of hay/the mounting pile of amputated limbs/surgeons in blood and pus-stained
coats working by candlelight/whiskey, quinine, slops/manure, offal, gangerine/the filthy
lucre of life’s theatre/anesthetised and raving like Broadway critics/let’s not nit-pick/the blurb ways
of someone else’s days/the pin scratches, splinter pricks, pustulas, and abrasions that bring the curtain...