Death of the Music Thread

Let me sing the dying roses
of barbed (radio) wire bouquets,
MacGowan  whispered to Sinead
“aren’t these the reasons why we lived
sang the measure of our dreams.”

The jukebox will never die
the final beat of each heart attack,
even never played symphonies
will find fingers on their piano

Russian who etched her soul
on lyrical ectoplasm, shrouded
in Kremlin mists of orchestral fists,
Norwegian who stripped bark from every tree
left wood splinters in eternal oceanic seas,
the Tamil girl who sang the negligee of her culture
exposed her thighs to, well, never mind
Dutch Gus who drove musical trains
into beats of international airports,

Leave your passports upon my weeping soul
in a crying karaoke, the songs will never die.

And again, heart’s symphony
is the strum of death upon life
And again,
America did you ever listen?

Just leave my bones
wrapped in Cave’s ‘Ship Song’
sail me to her singing mouth

And again
I have measured out my life in Morrissey
but sorry Steven, you won’t sing at my funeral