Father and Mother. Suppose they had never met and fallen in love and kissed and made love and had their kid put them up in this gothic and dilapidated resting place.
What then?
Maybe nothing. And maybe everything.
How can we know? And is that heartbreaking, or what? Or is it a pretty good joke?
It works like this:
Some were little babies who could never clear out their lungs to take a single clear breath. Some were old. Some fit. Some sickly. Some praying to go. Some terrified and holding on until their bodies betrayed their spirits. Some lonely bastards. Some lousy in love. Some joined to their doomed Siamese twin, who joined them about seven awkward minutes later. Some pregnant, with their child trying like hell to join the world of the living. Some lost in the desert a quarter-mile from a highway. Some buried under an avalanche. Some in a closet with a homemade noose, a dirty magazine, and their pants down. (RIP, T.) Some on the way to the hospital. Some showing off for their girlfriends. Some hit by an airplane in their driveways. http://www.kcra.com/news/19213380/detail.html
La de da de da.
La de da de dead.
La de da dead dead.
La dead da dead dead.
Dead dead da dead dead.
Dead dead dead dead dead.
It works like that.
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4 comments:
mb, you can really spin a paragraph. "seven awkward minutes later" - what an elegant turn of phrase there.
justcurious--thank you. that's very kind of you.
Sappho said:
Believe me
Death is an evil
The Gods think so
Or would have died--
O long ago!
Which I quote because I lack eloquence of my own at the moment.
Wow. You can kill a good mood in a second. I'm smiling about my captions and now I'm weeping for the futility of everything. Thanks for that.
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