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Face to face with black tuxedo death

i've never come

never felt polite skeleton finger bones

come to lightly perch themselves upon my shoulder

Whispered with grace and eloquence:

"We had better be on our way."

As if Eternity wasn't long enough

to gently shake awake old ghost-skinned women

from their beds at 3 AM

to lead their souls by the hand into the wind toss'd air

      and the ultimate ever after



but i've heard rumours spoken

by videocameras and late night news authorities

of a skulking, merciless bag of bones

Death who pisses out a fetid, murky stream

of cheap wine and HIV blood around street corners

Who speaks not a word to old alley addicts

only black tar heroin to cushion the blow

as their throats are cut and their wretched souls

wrenched carelessly from lifeless, mouldering bodies

to be swept out of sight, making sure

           that rumours remain rumours