A Dead Man’s Poem

[busker]

Dead Man’s Poem

Sound’s ephemerality:
sweet graveside singing.
Deceased, stone vitality
reverberates the ringing.
A choir of crying crickets
click in the dark thicket
raining tears of pitches
washing away the grey picture.
Black and white youth:
decomposing sinew.

A silent, grateful ode
lost in the cracking of bones.

Worms churn buttery bodies,
erupting tendrils squirm,
young ones ask, "Where's Wally?"
red and white turned to dirt.
Bodies stay baby-still
to the knelling of the bells,
widows weep, sons still
the unspoken word: a spell:
necromantic static
as deep as a well.

A silent, grateful ode
lost in the cracking of bones.

CRRRRRR-
ackalackadacking
flutey skeleton,
“I never touched a celibate.
Life, I was content with it.”
Xylophone bones,
Jamaican vibes,
“We all go alone,
even Bob Marley died.”
Fiesta la vida!
Un poco loco!
“For you to think,
I would still want to blink…”
Coconut milk dribs,
empty satisfied ribs,
“I speak through the dust,
eternity is death.”

As a parody of what a poem is supposed to be, it is too long. So it’s just a bad poem, like a middle schooler’s concept of what a meaningful poem ought to be. 

“Young ones ask “where’s Wally”
is no more meaningful in context than
“young ones sit astride the polka horse”

There isn’t a single image that stands out. Actually, there are no images.

There’s nothing here to critique, but in borrowing from an earlier crit about a similar sort of poem a few years ago, the author might want to develop a single image and work on that.