I have two if I may: ______________________________________ For countless years I have suffered, consumed in hate and misery, Twisting, growing inside of me. I have witnessed the transformation since childhood. Forced into a cosmic blackness, endlessly scarred, Alone and betrayed I explode, a misanthropic scream. Recalling the decades of suffering, I finally hit bottom, my skin and flesh tears apart, Revealing my true nature, the product of my wretched life. Tormented through knowledge and wisdom, I easily transcend human limitation. Boundless rage intensifies my yearn to kill, Salvation shall be found in the death of my enimies. Finally I will be free from the lies that enchained me. Because of them I will always suffer, but no longer! No! It is a sad, pathetic man who turns the other cheek. I brutally kill all those who have harmed me, Raped, Dismembered and Scattered, A graveless, unknown death. -------------------------------- Human existance is so profound. Retarded, imbred creatures born simply to die. Completely useless though somehow content. Their sad lack of wisdom, Their incompatince, truely absurd. Such empty, pointless lives, these animals of lies. Being told how to think and feel. Puppets on the strings of religion and government, Their very existance, calculated, to be lead to slaughter. I have such hate for all humanity. So weak and pathetic, their lives already forfeit. Living as pigs, bathed in filth and stupidity, Unworthy of the gift of life, begging silently to die. I have such hate for all these fucking ingrates.

"A Carcass My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases. The sun shone down upon that putrescence, As if to roast it to a turn, And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature The elements she had combined; And the sky was watching that superb cadaver Blossom like a flower. So frightful was the stench that you believed You'd faint away upon the grass." Charles Baudelaire - Une Charogne (Excerpt) Source and full text (French and English) here: http://fleursdumal.org/poem/126 Further information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baudelaire

Not my favourite (I don't really *favour* poems about death) but here's one by one of my favourite poets Moments by Ivor Gurney I think the loathed minutes one by one That tear and then go past are little worth Save nearer to the blindness to the sun They bring me, and the farewell to all earth Save to that six-foot-length I must lie in Sodden with mud and not to grieve again Because high Autumn goes beyond my pen And snow lies inexprest in the deep lane.

Crimson Blackens She stands before him, Love shining from her. He approaches, Emotions swell. His hand on her chest, Feel the firm beat. A hint of pain... She looks down. His fingers... Dissappear into her flesh. She whimpers, Blood flows down. Through flesh and bone, He reaches without expression. Crimson darkens, thickens, Moving sluggishly. Her heart beats slowly, Against his palm. Eyes once shining joyously, Now dulling. He grasps and withdraws, Her heart in his hand. Emotions dead, Heart shrivels. Crimson blackens.

The Cremation of Sam McGee

The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service. It's quite long, but I guess I will post it anyway. :) There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales hat would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.” On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see; It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee. And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.” Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan: “It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone. Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.” A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee. There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.” Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing. And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin. Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.” And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.” Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see; Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside. I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide. And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door. It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm— Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.” There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

Porphyria's Lover, by, I think the "he" Browning. (there were two)

This may be it, 'Deep Secrets' by A.E.Newman - rather morbid and just a little threatening I think. . . . an ancient ruined citadel exposed by archaeology - its crumbling walls decorated with startling reliefs of fabulous beasts. A featureless terrain, quick shovels glinting in the sun, in syncopated beckoning to souls beyond the void. Our foul amnesic chasms cleaving dust of days of yore, meet frightful things profaning earth that nourished them before. Hearts thump and picks and shovels poise, a timeless interval. There, brooding in uncharted realm of musty disarray, a fortress, dark and sinister, a sullen, sombre sight, its crumbling stones and sun-baked clay mired in primordial night. And then we glimpse them, wary, riled, unwontedly aroused, come heel-to-toe from mouth of hell to taste the air again. An eerie file of mythic beasts lured from their hoary den, like night-moths to the lamplight, by this sunlit world of men. Trooping in dour procession on their doleful doomsday march. defiant in their mute rebuke of ancient negligence. From darkest hour of blackest night, they pace, with measured tread, And shiver off the charnel spoil in which so long interred. From derelict abandonment in dire eternity, vaulting the aeons (vengeful?) from deepest catacomb, to admonish sacrilegious hands of ages unforeseen, which seek to stir the secrets of their shadowy demesne. Grim beauty in those stilted forms, soundlessly padding feet, the lolling tongues, the wicked jaws for rending limb from limb. With matching strides and tails curled high with splendid regal poise, they slink to sight so softly in their loitering reprise. Prowling the shattered carapace of broken city walls, their glaring eyes, late sightless, now from vile detritus freed, a glittering malevolence, complexions all aflame. Menagerie of species lost - and on the march again.