the tomb of Anubis
I lived in a world where your choices were simple,
either you grew or you shrank,
your cried or you laughed at the first sign of trouble,
depending on how much you drank.
I’m holding a bowl from the tomb of Anubis,
it’s one of a kind, after all,
it fits in my hand like a piece of a puzzle,
winged, and unbearably small.
Love is a letter that never gets written,
it’s sealed with a bang and a kiss,
I leaned to receive your affection of fire,
bubbling hot in the hiss.
Death is a permanent blot on the landscape,
his edges are sharp for the cut,
I circled his bones with a wary expression,
the door to oblivion, shut.
The beach is deserted for miles and miles,
the brides of desire are gone,
they’re swimming in pairs to the city of angels,
looking for somewhere to spawn.
After the culling, I cried for an hour,
death rowed his boat to the shore,
I gave him my heart in a bowl from the tomb of the dead,
but he always wants more.
We sift through the sand for the relics of magic,
my pockets are heavy enough,
I chew, but the flesh from the last lonely whale in the ocean,
is bloody and tough.
Death says the world is a pearl in an oyster,
he’s wrong, but he’s planted a seed,
the little black boat with it’s cold-hearted ghost from the past,
is the last thing I need.
I chew on the bones ‘til there’s nothing but marrow,
the impulse to swallow is rare,
death plays a game with the stones from the edge of the world,
but he doesn’t play fair.
I buried his bones in an ivory coffin,
I wrapped them in shadows and gold,
despite your objections to living forever,
you’re never too young to grow old.
We measure your heart with a very small ruler,
we measure your life by your books,
we hang what remains of the body’s most valuable organs
from very sharp hooks.
My face is distorted by silver reflections,
I hate what my heart has become,
it’s swollen from some unforgettable curse,
and it’s skin is as tight as a drum.
Death is in love with the world’s oldest child,
he waits for the moon to return,
the sun is a ball on the crimson horizon,
smoke rises up as we burn.
We row on an ocean the colour of copper,
I hum, but I don’t know the song,
I point to the stars as a way to decipher the message,
but maybe I’m wrong.
Maps have their purpose, though death doesn’t need them,
he draws what he needs on your skin,
the door to the tomb of anubis revolves,
but there’s no coming out, once you’re in.
We generate heat with the push of a button,
it melts our indelible hearts,
inside us are moth-eaten relics of darkness,
and other reversible parts.
We burn, but that’s just our attention to detail
boring a hole in our heads,
the ceiling is cluttered with dark premonitions,
hung from invisible threads.
Death is an angel as black as a shadow,
gold is your only defense,
you wrap your invisible heart in a beautiful skin,
but it doesn’t make sense.
It glows when I kiss it, rebuilding the future,
it shrinks when I call it by name,
death has a billion and one pickled hearts in a jar,
but they all look the same.
October 16 2015
This is the second life guard house painting I did, from a photograph I took in New Zealand.