Something about romac's latest post inspired this poem - if that nomenclature is deserved.
Tragedy is a funny thing,
The moment you meet, you know
There will be an ending,
As inevitable as a sunset,
Whether it is a birth, a prang,
New Year’s Eve, in an elevator,
On the road, in a saloon or a graveyard,
And the things you say,
That just pop into your head:
"That’s a lovely hat; it suits the shape of your face,"
I love that colour on you; it makes your eyes so arresting,"
"Nice shoes; wanna fuck?"
seem so melancholy when they become nostalgic.
No laughter, not a belly-laugh, a guffaw,
nor even a chuckle
can dispel the sadness that settles on the mind,
like a cloak of night, soft, even, smothering, numbing,
- all hues diluted into shades of gray,
by time, emotional overload, ennui
like the taste of coffee grown cold on the windowsill
in the light of an overcast morning,
sweet, sticky, sickening – like blood on rain-slickened pavement,
never able to satisfy a longing for the warm, musky smell
of her rain-dampened hair
nor recall a single instant of joy,
nor ease the bowel-watering, lip-trembling pain,
funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha.