This poem is taken from Stand 219, 16(3) August - September 2018.
‘Yellow orbs for eyes, a black skull! Come on, Martin, I’m in trouble!’ Martin, my alter-ego, assures me, Nothing to worry about. No one sees the Reaper. As if he’d know—he’s never seen him either!
I gallop out of the graveyard with a pasty-white goose neck and polka-dotted dress,Martin’s on my tail, offering advice on how to handle this ‘existentially prim-itive’ scenario.
When the Reaper walks behind you, stop and shake hands and do a deal. Otherwise, you take a detour through the human spectacle.
Martin’s a bluff: he’s only a shadow of myself, so what’s to be afraid of? The Reaper’s boots clacking on the walk, his scythe catching the sun… He’s a Gothic advertisement. Trust me, you’d know him if you saw him. The Reaper never bothers with disguises.