Buried Behind The Pipes, English Existential Poetry

Trembling hand makes keys
Jangle and the lock is turned
That keeps the skeletons
Which tend to rattle
Firmly restrained
Interned within their closets
And those, with prying eyes, without
Are denied dark musty old secrets
Land ends where the tarmac begins
Friendly long-haired cat
Reminds him of the enshrined
Dead feline of a friend
And the noise coming from
Within the kitchen
Is no earthly rat
It's a metaphysical
Clatter of cracks
And rat-a-tat-tats
That judder through his head
As he lays on his bed
Composing ghostly poetry
About his faulty fridge,
Creditors, vigilantee cattle
All arrayed for battle
And the madness of history
Gone by threatening
Never to repeat itself
Forever locked in
Rat-tat-tat'ing
As if buried alive
Behind the pipes
Grey charcoal man
Worries the ghost is he
That the belief he's alive
Has no basis in reality
He's died, his soul lies
Buried behind the pipes

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