[ There is no point, mister dylan ]

There is no point, mister dylan
in denying death  – in raging
raging ’til you’re out of breath!
It has unvanquished dominion.
Let the others bleat and wail
and lie and proselytise –
neither cajoling nor vituperation
will annihilate annihilation –
both will only exaggerate the pain
of secretly knowing [‘though you deny]
that nothing ever comes again
[or after in some fleshless facsimile]

More you might gain to come to terms
with the ubiquitous and hungry worms – 
to fully understand how what we call day
includes a night – that life is, in a way
a package deal

.

.

dylan thomas, of course, but
the mister dylan…is an oblique bow to e.e. cummings…who was wont to write  “mister death”

.

.

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