Improv 1, Week 5

This week's improv is a riff of John Poch's poem, "Death"

When I was born, everybody died.
I never make my bed, and someone's always
coming behind me, picking up.
I'm a leader.
I lost my keys to a tomb at noon.
My footpring is a single black feather
or a petal fallen from anything (pick a color).
A lover of formality, I'm black and white.
Black tie, barefoot and sloopy.
When I'm on fire, I'm cold.
The borken-leged Lipizzaner in a ditch complains my name.
I'm as slow as a spent bullet.
I fear the mirror only.
Bright tattoos of unremarkable people decorate my calves,
and I strut down the beach like a famous wrestler
who has practiced and practed falling.
Photography is my bad.
I like hiding under the black cloth
while everyone waits for an explosion.
Prayer to my sinews is my idea of fun.
I lie down as much as possible
in a nest of bones till I feel guilty enough
to get up and write an epitaph.
I rhyme with breath.
Everything my father did was joke.
My mother is a flute, a fluke.
I have wanted to marry Love for so long.
She won't have me.
When I die, everyone will live forever.


In this piece, Poch personifies death as an average every day person, but he utilizes a different perspective of death in order to do so. He avoides using the streotypics images of darkness, shadows, graves, spirits, bones, skulls, and scythes. Instead, he opts for images of formality, photography (as a hobby of death), strutting down the beach like a wrestler, and much more. This piece inspired me to try to capture death in another light: that of a small child. I began thinking of how certain aspects of death would be voiced by a child between the ages of 5-7. In doing so, may of the stereotyped images of death became light-hearted and almost playful. The final result is below:


Death Unravelled

Whenever I visit, it is so fun!
Everyone always comes and plays with me.
We play Ice Rangers—pale skinned and cold-lipped
guardians of the Earth who haunt others
for their protection. We’re cooler
than those ranger-power-guys.
Black is my favorite color. Playing Indian
Chief, black sap stains my face
every night. I am no-years-old
with over a million birthdays a year.
At my parties, there are black
balloons that flare out real fancy,
and people dress in licorice costumes!
Last year Beatrice Arthur, Steve McNair,
And Farrah Fawcett, all came.
I was on the news for weeks.
Though I wonder why people keep bringing
flowers instead of cake and candy.
My favorite game is hide-and-seek.
No one ever sees me coming: stealthy
and slick like the white plagued
raccoon—the best kind of spy.
I am left-handed. I have this super
blazing midnight cape that makes me
all mysterious. Batman would be so jealous!
Daddy says the cape is special
and will protect me forever.
Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you touch it,
then you can live forever too.
I’m the best friend you’ll ever have,
and we’ll be together
for eternity.