I was invited at rather short notice to contribute to a Friday the 13th, Unlucky in love night of miserable poetry. I wrote the piece especially, not having anything suitable. as laments go… it seemed to elicit a lot of giggling. Words below for anyone who can’t get along with video.
I wanted a black dress, damn you to hell
With a hearse to arrive in and mourners as well
A bunch of dead roses to hold at my thigh
With brown crisped up leaves all crumbling dry.
I wanted a honeymoon, somewhere remote
With a host and a ghost and a sacrifice goat
And rings on my fingers and bells on my toes
And a bloody great raven as mournful as Poe’s.
Then back to the castle for cobwebs and gin
Things claw at the window and try to get in.
Where others than we would go bump in the night
Surrounded by those most unfond of the light
I wanted to sleep in a velvet lined coffin
While down in our basement some misshapen boffin
Makes mechanised prayers to evoke elder gods
And hatches unspeakable things out of pods.
I wanted the spiders, the webs and the dust
The squeal of a hinge overtaken by rust
A pendulous promise of doom in the air
And decay and delusion and also despair.
You took me for afternoon tea, in Cirencester.
Sure. I like scones as much as the next person
But I knew, from that moment, we were doomed.
And not in a good way.
You hand picked me roses all sprinkled with dew
And proceeded to write me a sonnet or two.
Then hired a man with a lute and a hat
To sing under my window. He looked like a prat.
Oh you took me to dances, you took me to France,
You spoke of eternity and of romance.
You bought me a cottage, a pony, a ring,
But darling, you see it just isn’t my thing.
And yes, your whole family seems very nice
But I picture them bloody and frozen in ice.
I wanted a poet whose heart had been broken
Whose tears were all real and whose bleeding not token.
I wanted the raw and the driven insane
But you sent me kittens, not pathos and rain.
I wanted the tortuous depths of your soul
Not this shiny courtship, I fear it’s your goal
To marry me, make me a comfy old wife
Condemned to be cheerful the rest of my life.
And so sweetest darling there’s nothing to do,
But create my own tragic ending for you
A wedding day accident, that would have charms
So cruelly snatched from your new wife’s pale arms
Then I can weep and float round in a veil
Faint for no reason, from time to time wail.
Who dares to say gothic romance is dead?
You’ll find all you need, in my coffin shaped bed.
(If you want any more silliness, there’s also Intelligent Designing for Amateurs)