The theatre of my death – just one of those evenings

‘Welcome, to the theatre of my death!’
you purple laughing hihinas
blowing speech bubbles of hibiscus
in my face as I twinkle and torture over immortal words
then another sip of bloody red whine
as I crumple the page and set it alight
i pour a whisky as crowds in concentration camp styl jeans
loudly applaud… ‘O, come on laugh’, I command
while lighting a cigi between my teeth
with the page burning between my fingers
‘welcome to the theatre of my death!’, I holler again
and I drop the fireball page into the whiskey
after the hissing war of water and fire ceases
i take a sip collecting loads of black ash on my tongue
giggling to myself like a little girl
‘You fuckers, you came for the final show?’, i ask
drunken words squeezed out like drunken fucks
‘Come on, stand your man, raise your fists.’
i shadow box around the empty room
‘Come on motherfuckers!’
i swing at the dark with my fists and imagine
young teen age girls squealing with pleasure
then I feel tired, and sit down at the edge of my bed
i stare at all the emptiness, the loneliness
that this single candle lights up with so much ease.
i sink my warm head deep into my palms
‘The theatre of my own death.’, I giggle
then I roll back and invite another chapter of sleep in
with out taking my shoes off

©2007, Sjaka S. Septembir, unpublished poem