Not going gentle
William de Kypia

Distressing it is, my dear old friend,
to watch you decline like this, lurch
miserably down to a dismal end,
barely strength for one last piss.

All those many lusty years you had.
Now joints are froze up, guts turned
sour, eyesight gone appallingly bad.
Did you truly have to sell the car? 

Each day a cruel vivisection. Night's
torment cannot make you whole.
At dawn, pain-wracked resurrection.
Where is the life living stole?

We raged together, shared one cup,
flaunted most quaintly against the tide.
Could it be my fault you're used up—
pasty, puffing, bloated and blear-eyed?

Well, t
obacco to ashes, iron men rust.
If you want to wend your own way, just
shuffle offstage. No hard feelings I trust.


Still…Those bullying doctors and their lifestyle
changes arrive much sooner than anticipated.
And when you go down, my world rearranges.

Cease to prattle morbidly about mortality.
Mere credence sustains what they call reality.
If we don’t believe something, it can’t be true.

Our friendship is a gift I will never forget.
Though your flesh falters, my spirit prevails.
And despite someone’s minor aches, petty
ails, I can carry us both for a fair spell yet.

So sit right down, pal, don't mind the mess.
How was the bus ride? You've lost some weight,
wish I could too. Bet you're hungry. Let's order
a pizza, do BBQ, whatever sounds best to you.
We’ll grab us some brewskis and get real tight,
I'm going waaaay off my diet tonight.


L'inconnue