Of The Coming Plague
I ask nothing
but that I be allowed go out and get it.
Better death than suffer
the interminable sobbing of newscasters,
the grimaces of sweating experts,
and politicians’ elongated
gobs, which keep moving
in the hope the blame
will be stapled elsewhere.
I’ll tour the town’s mortuaries
and kiss on the mouth all the corpses
that died of it. Before you ask: yes,
there will be tongues
which I’m told will feel
like cold, stiff slugs.
And if that doesn’t finish me,
I’ll start breaking into hospitals,
quarantined night club toilets,
the offices of eminent plastic surgeons
to lick clean the soap dispensers
which, by then, will be all out of soap
but alive with the world’s germs.
For, Death, what do I know of you,
never having died before?
You’ve had a terrible press,
but could be victim
of the smear campaign.
Perhaps you’re the best thing ever.
Like the first gulp of Champagne;
or all the orgasms I’ve ever had,
and a few I never managed.
First they cancel the football, then they close the pubs and now this….
Maybe they should close the mortuaries for public viewing.
A little darker than your usual fare, Kevin.
…even the darkest clouds have silver linings…
Well now Kevin; you may have just invented a new fetish:
Its disciples shall be called what?
Coronaphiles.
Covidaphiles
Both. They divided after the great schism of 15:10. The Coronaphiles wanted to wash hands to the Happy Birthday tune twice, while the Carvidaphiles believed it should the Staying Alive ditty. The result was a scene of grisly bodies scattered around…
He sure has it coming…
Perhaps I’ll skip that invitation to dinner…..
Kevin Higgins has nothing to offer except hate
I ask nothing
but that you do it. Really.
Greetings from Italy in despair