Come again.

A poem about being hard to kill.

all we can really do 
is make the reaper’s job hell, 
you know? 

that’s what i wish 
for you, 
for me, 
for anyone

to make the sonofabitch 
curse your name 
as he drags you to hell

to make him swing a few times, 
to whiff a few more

to throw out his shoulder, 
to throw out his back,
to get his neck out of whack

to piss blood,
swallow blood, 
vomit blood 

to call in the heavies, 
to let loose the hellhounds, 
to swap out his scythe for a colt 45 

i want you to be so hard to kill, 
that you get the mother fucker 
in serious trouble with his employer 

i want the thought of you,
the thought of you, 
to make him lose his erection 

that’s it kid, 
that’s it 

i want him to walk 
into the bedroom 
with his mistress, 
his cloak tattered, 
his spirit tattered, 
his day tattered, 

and i want him to go limp 
at the thought of you still living, 
still breathing, 
still carrying on 

what a glorious, 
thunderous way to live 

to single-handedly ruin 
the reaper’s sex life 
at your outright refusal 

to die.

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P.S. This poem is part of an album I wrote and produced called Love is a hot air balloon burning to the ground. If you’d like to listen to the spoken word version, you can do so here.

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