Our third installment of Anti-Genre is a thoughtful, unflinching rumination on death and the transforming moments that surround it, by Gavin Mndawe.  


Beautiful Funeral

Atoms roam round a tomb stone
It takes more than a fool to know
That funerals are for fools alone

It is said that he’s dead
What an illusion though
I don’t consider it the end
Maybe diffusion or moving along

It’s sad that he’s dead
At least it wasn’t by noose or sword
Besides, the silver cord must be torn
For the core to be loosed

Man, you’re manure
For intangible germination
Ritual killing of kings
Is sacrificial flogging
Facing pressure

They make impressions
Not seeing beyond the vision
Of decomposition
And the end of anything definite
And comprehended
In a hundredth of a second
Also known as ‘jiffy’

Let the dead in the spirit
Bury corpses of the flesh

Sacrificing in spite of the tension
There’s a limping longing for lightning
To reanimate him

They say there’s never life
Without the latter
Reason why it’s got wings
And a net to snatch us
That’s liberation and captive
Birth only took us backwards

Chaos has been there
Since day one
Before expiry-date-slapped Sun
Whose fuel will run out
Was spun by the spit of the one
When worlds weren’t whirled
Into the wild

It is the sentiment of Darwinism
Representative of ascension
One could argue with them
And say you’re the reason
For existence

To me it makes sense
That you’re inevitable
But look at all the effort
They put into pulling the wool
Over my eyes

You should’ve known it’s arrived
Clichés for days
With you it’s the same

They think of you
As a phantom
But I beg to differ
Something about the night
Makes one deaf to the outer
Amplifies the inner

Let us be grateful
For the end of an era


Photo by Matthew Friedman © 2018