Funeral Party Poem by Mark Murphy

When the hours of morning stop and dawn forces
its greyness, the dead will come to your bedsides
as strangers, carrying their mirrors like lanterns.
They will gatecrash the skulls of the heaviest
sleepers, leave them with nothing, want nothing,

not even regret. Hear this! I am the last guest
to leave, the last chief of the gooney birds, mindful
of my responsibilities, mind full of excuses. Listen
to the sea for no other reason than it is there.
Listen so long as listening matters. I have strayed

a thousand miles off course, left my nesting grounds
to the stone men and come among you to let you share
this sense of loss. Hooray for the excesses of the ego!
I want my fifteen minutes of fame, my claw prints
on the sidewalks of Hollywood. Cut me and I bleed.

Peck at me with your beaks. Peck at these eyes
until they are as blind as the sun. The problem
remains. Half-four, the sun at its brightest
lights the room, demands meaning.