Death Hates Chess

What is it with this idea of Death as a Chessplayer?
He hates the bloody thing:
so much mono
rerouting turns,
in logic trifles
with each player's strategising
begging their patience -
to think?!
No, he'd ram the board away and
curtly whisper
"I terminate."
"Kings or Queens or
Pawns be damned,
In fact, I'm damning -
fuck all them."
He'd take that mawed out toothpick
and pollock in your pupil yolks:
Flick
Flick
Prick
Prick
Of course he'd sigh along the business,
keeping the dust firm to rest you,
then don overcoat and swagger off:
"Business ain't chess yunno."

And business sure as hell ain't cheap,
we forget, Death the silver tongue,
having so many to curate.

He's all for word games though, in fact
crosswords his peak pleasures - not to fill in, no,
to slot out all those black bits
and
ruin it.

Death, you dirty dog;
we can't all claim your bottoms up IQ,
except you with those slitted eyes
keening so gently
to see loss.
He reels news sheets and bludgeons me:
"Don't play me kid, I'm still your boss."
 

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