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Braggadocio
By Paul Cameron Brown
Chess playing Death
- no, the reverse
Death sitting decked out and self-satisfied
in black no mandatory top hat but a shroud
shouldering a cowl.
There stereotypes end -
appearances have to be kept up
tho' hardly any cinematic gnarled fingers
of Baron Samedi fame
rather pudgy digitals reflecting
gentile prosperity
(after all, Winners do take all
his fellow satanists bank on it).
Of course, such things are fictitious.
Death plays no favourites (and waits
for no man when rivalling Time).
Still, parlour games are one indulgence.
Hardly comforting to know human beings
function at one purpose
when this Hallow of Hallows puts on the smirk.
Dalliance with the victim is the upshot -
the chess motif again.
Sift thru the chicken bones a mite -
let the chump stir the rubble of his dreams.
Something of gallow's humour or gangster largesse.
Offer a stiff drink (brandy will do), one last cigarette.
Then, too, for beaten gladiators toiling bravely the
apparent rewards accelerate. Truckloads of flowers
at the funeral, for instance. Preferential treatment for
the guise or mercy must be kept up.
All lies in appearances. Prepare the feast. Sit the
guest of honour on a splendid cushion, then serve up
dish after sumptious dish.
Dining splendidly on one's own children
unbeknownst is a favourite - maddens the victim no end.
Brief success turning to bitter sawdust is the supreme
moment of ecstasy. Serves precisely as metaphoric
extension of all earthly reward as illusionary. (A
delicious ruse borrowed shamelessly from fellow
representatives on Earth - the Sicilian Mafia.)
Further spin-offs centre about the Absurd But spare
us juvenile intrigue with petty omens like a bird loose
in the house. Rather, a swift check-mate served up in
the best Grandmaster tradition is more a propos.
Therein lies the jest.
Workaholics and their polar opposites, the dead lazy.
effortlessly come around. When realization hits home
all distinctions blur. No difference. Sharp laughter
unceremoniously greets even the self-composed.
Especially intriguing are the ambitious. Endless quirks really.
Concerted mockery recreates further patterns of futility.
Basic strategy remains unchanged, though. Disguise is paramount.
Dress her in robes of tarter gray,
implant a slight smile, then beckon
from around each corner.
Create a maze, but attractive-like with flower pots.
Faint knockings behind every door. A cooling breeze overhead.
Genuine affability like an open air Swiss cottage in a summer meadow.
The greater the false hope, the greater the final squirming.
Funny stuff, for even Death at one remote corner of his
being partakes in occasional mirth (why not, with his
monopoly intact on everything else).
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