Autonomous Hands

Some customers just won't be ignored


        “Johnnie Walker on the rocks,


        Black, just like me.”

the melodic accent intrudes with sensual rhythm

knifing staccato into my delirium

I pull myself together

out of a reverie of derisive self-pity.



Diverting my attention to the new customer

I discover that this smooth-talker

is none other than Death

- the Soul-stalker -

right there at the bar.



        "So, Death," I say as confidence deserts me

        "It's come down to this."



Death arches a meaningful eyebrow

        "How 'bout dat drink, Mon?"



the eyes within the deeply hooded cowl begin to glow

whether this is due to my bumbling incompetence

or the encroaching moment of my demise

- I'm not sure -

to my immense relief I find that said beverage

has already been prepared by my autonomous hands.



        "This one's on the house!"

I smile

- try to smile -

        "Nothing in life is free, Mon."

        "Look, spare me the trite clichés


& I'll spare you the false platitudes, Death!"

chancy - I know - taking it to Him this way

the lashing wroth, however is absent in evidence.



Death emits a low chuckle, like James Earl Jones

        "Ti hee hee, hooo!"

- Nah nah nah! More like -

        "Ahh ha ha haah. Listen, young Baaaasss….."

I sense Hemingway rolling in his grave

        "I've got a job to do, just like you."

a coffee-coloured hand tosses coins

- mostly gold -

sending them scattering across the bartop

it's the best tip I've had all night

death winks: the soulless fires of decrepitude

inside his skull briefly dim.



He takes the drink, turns and strides away

melting into the melee of zoo-animals

James Earl Jones laughter follows his bescythed figure

leaving a lurid trail of vapours;

African musk

top-shelf scotch

& a faint whiff of brimstone.