The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #23

Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI

15 December 2020

I think of death. What must it be like for mortals to die? How must it feel? Is it scary or do you simply wink out, like candlelight, never knowing what happened or what it all meant? To make sense of it all, I have written four sweet, sentimental poems for all the dear departed. I hope they bring some small comfort.

Ode 1: For all dead mothers

Hundreds of vultures in the darkening sky
Hundreds of condoms on the beach
Hundreds of cars that go screeching by
Hundreds of drones in the sunny weather
Hundreds of abandoned panties to greet the dawn
Hundreds of lovers in the purple clover
Hundreds of butterflies in the stomach
But only one mother the wide world over.

Thank Christ for that

For who could live with more than one mama
Watching over them day and night?
Do this, don’t do that, twice over
So spare a thought for the kids
Who actually do have two mothers!
And when said combined mamas kick the bucket
There’ll be two pairs of eyes
Watching their children’s every move.

 

Ode 2: For a departed love one

Farewell to thee! but not farewell to me,
To all my indifferent thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they shall not dwell;
For you were ghastly unto the end.
Good riddance to you, oh tiresome bore.
And they shall cheer and comfort me.
If thou hadst never met mine eye,
If I may neer behold again
That form and face so loathsome to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
It won’t be soon enough.
Thy grating articulation, the horror of whose tone
Can wake a migraine in mine head,
Creating feelings that, alone,
Can make my sphincter clench.
That sour eye, whose glowering beam
My memory would not wipe out soon enough;
And oh, that grin! whose depraved gleam
No mortal language can express.
Piss off, but let me cherish, still,
The hope with which I cannot part
That you won’t come back again.
And who can tell but Hell, at last,
May answer all my thousand prayers,
And bid adieu the future pay the past
With smiles for tears?

 

Ode 3: From a departed mother to her living child

Please, don’t cry.
I’m not really gone.
When you look out the window,
I’ll be standing on the lawn,
With an axe.

Please, don’t cry.
I’ll be standing over you
As you sleep,
Unconscious to the world.

Please, don’t cry.
I’m not really dead.
Just under your bed,
Waiting for you to fall asleep
So that I can crawl out
And eat your face.

Please, don’t cry.
I’m not gone forever.
Just lying in this box,
Smelling like meat gone bad.

Please, don’t cry.
Don’t run and hide.
When I shuffle up the drive
At twelve past midnight.

Please, don’t cry.
This is not goodbye.
So please, oh please,
Baby, don’t you cry.
I will be back again…

And then you will be sorry
For the arsenic you put in my chai latte,
You little shit. 

 

Ode 4: For a beloved ho

When you remember Emmett,
Don’t think of him this way.
Instead, remember the good times you had,
Or the funny things he did with his tongue.
Remember him sans pants,
How he loved the fragrant breeze.
Remember him in summer,
As the sunshine kissed his cheeks.
Remember him in autumn,
How he loved turning over.
Remember him in winter,
Watching his nipples freeze in the breeze.
But although Emmett surely loved you,
Remember, he loved just about everyone else as well,
And don’t lose heart because we’ll see him again,
When we reach that dank dark room on the other side.

À bientôt, mes amies.


The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker and a Greek bear wrestler. He is currently stateless and lives on gin and cigarettes.

Dmetri Kakmiis the author of Mother Land (shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia), and the editor of When We Were Young. His latest book is The Door and Other Uncanny Tales. He does not endorse the Sozzled Scribbler’s views.