Today, a friend told me of the death
of a close friend of his:
“He was depressed,” he told me,
“but no-one listened.”
He went to the railway station
and threw himself under a train.
I thought about this for a moment.
About how he would have been
struck by the train
with a fleshy thwack.
About how his head would have exploded
in an obscene eruption
of brain and skull fragments.
About how his limbs would have been
amputated raggedly
and the pieces of the corpse scattered
down the track
and with some pieces of flesh still
adhering to the front of the train.
I felt myself breaking into a smile
and inwardly, I laughed.
Today, I read in the paper
of a suicide bomber in the Middle East
who drove his car,
packed with Semtex,
into a schoolbus full
of children returning home.
I thought about this for a moment.
About how the children would not have noticed
the car careering towards them
as they were lost in their chatter.
About how there would have been
a split-second of realisation
before the car impacted into the bus
and exploded.
About how the small forms
would have been ripped apart
with arms and legs and heads and flesh
raining down on the shocked onlookers
along with jagged pieces of the bus
and the bombers car.
I broke into a smile
and then chuckled as
I returned to the crossword.
Today I was told
I was going to die:
There is nothing that can be done
to halt my inevitable demise.
I thought about this for a moment:
About how I had smiled
when the friend had told me
of his close friend who had
jumped into the path of the train.
About how I had smiled
thinking about the children
who had been dismembered
in the bombing of their school bus.
I recalled these images as
my own death overtook me.
And I smiled,
my face set in death.
© 2007
