Sicily: Catacombs from Diptych by The Classical

The desolated flower man holds his head in his hands
No one wants fresh flowers for the less-than-recent dead
Out of the heat, the people come to look upon his neighbors and ancestors

If we could hear their humor it would shock us, shock us all
Their wit slips out unspoken, crooked as their broken jaws
Disease is like a spider web: remains almost unseen until it catches
So why hold back black comedy’s good lessons?

The bodies of the virgins are not slower to decay
Their doors will never open but they’re still creaking just the same
Strung up by their necks in rotten dresses wheezing down at their weeping fathers
Masturbating, gargling saltwater

There I spent an hour with my hand upon my heart
Looking through their black eyes looking back at my solid form
If I die in Sicily I’ll fly among the lilac and tobacco
A strange and sweet exhaust I’ll be when I go

The desolated flower man holds his head in his hands
People are wanting photos with the less-than-recent dead
None of these Americans bring scarves to cover up their greasy shoulders
Scarves to cover up their greasy shoulders

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