tagNon-Erotic PoetryPunchinello's Funeral

Punchinello's Funeral


Above the monuments and greasy tombs
the dusty larks sang ceaselessly of sex,
a patch of bushes claimed, twelve fiery blooms,
the doom that hung above their little necks.
—William Logan, "The Resurrection of Punchinello"

How often violence ends with violent end.
Above the monuments and greasy tombs
misfortune spread its fond decay, its blend
of lucklessness and fate, despair and gloom.

His burial fell on the twelfth of May.
The dusty larks sang ceaselessly of sex,
compelled by God or by the length of day
or simply that they must. It's not complex,

or if it is, it doesn't matter much.
A patch of bushes claimed twelve fiery blooms
as if to welcome Punch, his bat now crutch,
limpingly to his new earthen rooms.

The mourners stood quite still as if they sensed
the doom that hung above their little necks.
Some gun, the noose, a wayward car dispensed
quite humorlessly, would elect them next.

(Of Punch's swazzled boast at end of show?
The Devil's never killed. He's merely slow.)

Survivor Poetry Contest
Form F (Glosa, with closing "moral" couplet)

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