warped

chanced upon this poem yesterday while leafing through an old poetry book from lit class:

"the oldman in the cripple chair
died in transit through the air
and slopped into the road

the driver of the lethallorry
trembled out and cried: 'i'm sorry,
but it was his own fault.'

humans snuggled round the mess
in masochistic tenderness
as raindrops danced in his womb.

****

but something else obsessed my brain,
the canvas, twistedsteel and cane,
his chair, spreadeagled in the rain,
like a fallen birdman"

-roger mcgough

i don't know why i am posting this, but when i read this i felt something was tugged from my heart:
we are all like (as plath will call it) "the peanut-crunching crowd"
morbid things evoke this conflation of fear & fascination that compels us to "snuggle(d)" round--
we are able to get comfortable with the mess only because the skins of our teeth are unblemished & unharmed