The Devil's Pleasure Garden: Picnic in a Graveyard

Picnic in a Graveyard

A sun-warmed headstone wide enough

        For us to straddle face to face
    And spread between us picnic stuff.
        I carefully betray no trace
        Of inching toward our first embrace.
    Cut grass, dead flowers, candle wax
        Perfume this strangely hopeful place.
    Reclined on elbows we relax
And stretch our happiness around all facts.

    Above some body's mold and bones
        We clink our glasses, sip bordeaux,
    Address each other in hushed tones
        And wonder where so many go.
        You tell me you don't want to know
    And concentrate on cutting brie
        While I remember to go slow,
    The traffic roar a distant sea,
The dead in bed as far as we can see.

    So housewifely your sweet demeanor,
        Skirt in place though thighs outspread,
    Handing me a cocktail wiener,
        Troweling some cheese on bread.
        "How happy we who are not dead!"
    I bubble forth, though I'm aware you'd
        Rather leave such things unsaid.
    I didn't bring you here to scare you
Although it does occur to me to dare you.

    When I was four I woke up screaming,
        The dark star hanging in plain sight.
    My father told me I'd been dreaming:
        Parental faith, however trite,
        That launches us against the night
    Dismisses death. And he was drunk.
        But now it strikes me he was right.
    Without the darkness we'd be sunk,
Imposed upon by Truth and other junk.

    That leaky plug each mortal hath,
        A swimming symbol of despair
    Beneath the surface of the bath
        Wobbling sketchily but there,
        Isn't really worth our care,
    For when it comes down to the crunch
        If we're to live with any flare
    We have to go with our best hunch
And hope that there'll be time to finish lunch—

    Of which we've reached the apple stage
        And scarce yet know what to believe.
You're surely less than half my age
        But I'm the one who sounds naive,
A child, impatient to conceive
    Whereof there image can be none,
Though we must live. Then give me leave
    To open up just one more bun.
I'm middle-aged and look! I'm having fun!

    So sweep we clean the granite table!
        (He below us stirs and glowers.)
    Unveiling you up to the navel
        I spread the petals of your flower.
        You leap, disdaining more to cower,
    Astride my lap, engage afresh,
        And blossoming amid love's bower
    We shrug away our clothes and mesh,
A marble graveyard monument in flesh.

on youtube

In print

Mortal coil,

A comedy of corpses

Robert MacLean is an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi and Scanbox, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a film reviewer, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. Committed to making movies that don't matter. No brains but an intellectual snob.