Coterie

Bloody gloves come off

at last.

we summon the death carts

with our laughter,

heads tossed back,

dead weight of irony halved,

hope winging past

the vultures.

Prop the corpse
and pour the tea--
Herr Doktor never came!

Agony becomes an amusing parlour game,

modern surgeons chuckle

throwing dull knives.

Guess your diagnosis.

Oh, no! You've lost again!

Curtsy, bow brains.

Let minstrels' pretty

pills strum psychotic music,

my dance card;

scalpels and spades polka,

yet, the old wounds

were made much deeper--

and the bills were astronomical!

Tragedy turned inside out

begs black, forget death's mystery; humour,

dissect this farce- we'll have our play-

each scene strips every trauma's impact,

neurotic guests say it's obscene,

a comedy of naked suffering.

We shall have ourselves a party!

We giggle and snort,

in masquerade with old monsters,

pinning glib, pathology's

dour, scowling sneer,

fate and fear

beneath red satin tongues

and warring slippers.