There may be mourners milling,
Distant, but duty-bidden,
Offering splints of alibis and hush;
The scent of dreams downtrodden,
Tales taller with each telling -
Poverty parading as panache.
Alone and pale and loitering
Beyond the realms of breath;
Who knows what clothes will clothe us then,
The naked and the left?
Decent suburban people
Content with life eternal
Sand their griefs with lullabies and toil,
There, where, beyond my funeral
Splintered around a table
Exes mix, with drinks and beans to spill.
Alone and pale and loitering
Beyond the realms of breath;
There may be angels bathed in light,
There may be everlasting night,
But in the raging halls of death
No matter what is left -
There will be jazz.
What of the life worth living?
Brackish coin of the breathing
Spent like balm across unbroken skin
Beyond the sight of grieving;
In the park, where children swing,
Or lovers sit, waiting for a sign.
Alone and pale and loitering
Beyond the realms of breath;
There may be brimstone, there may be flame,
There may be judges call my name,
But in the velvet halls of death
No matter what remains -
There will be jazz.