Venice in Winter

Looking for somewhere to kill yourself?

A nice cosy place to kill yourself?

You could do worse than Venice.

It’s all a blur,out there,in the rain,

As I sit beneath a cafe awning

With my caffé corretto,

My shivers and reveries...

Strange comfort there is in dissolution.

From every country in Europe they come,

The tasteful suicides,choosing their end

With aesthetic refinement,

Drawing the correct conclusion.

Another high tide, another falling back

Into the lagoon, the green slime;

The old are shuffling to destruction

Through another sickly season,

Markets are closing,

Doors are shut.

Mist and darkness hold the balance;

Unseen bells in hundreds

Peel and echo off the walls;

Silent silhouettes vanish

Down twisting alleyways.

Winter is a feast of fancies,

Candelight procession

From bridge to bridge;

Guises of murder and treason

Are now commedia dell’arte,

Death-masks of revellers

Making love to their lost,

Imagining abandon

Through blanked-out names.

Black cloak,black tricorn,

Whitegloved hands

And a stick to prod

And turn the patient over,

The plague doctor comes

With inquisitive beak,

To diagnose your sorrows.