When I die, and we all meet
our fait accompli; don’t say
I’ve passed away, or on
don’t deny life by denying
the gift of death,
don’t insult me with prayers
however well intentioned they be
have courage to be free
free to grieve naturally.
If you are of practical bent
you will have planted vegetables
in my patch of ash,
to the barren place
your voiding of useful
nutrients could help diminish
the disaster of famine.
Bring cup cakes
and free range chicken
cook with brightly coloured vegetables
with the spit and crackle – crackle,
let this be heard
pass around the food and offer
the dish to the homeless ravaged people
that is my preferred meaning to life.
And later (only so you can giggle
at me in middle finger derision)
drive en-mass down to the hip,
cool, boogie part of town
with all the windows down
through giant woofers and tweeters
promote hearing loss
with Dizzy Gillespie played
at maximum warp.
Make the occassion
a celebration of my bit
brief as it was, in a universe,
complex (incomprehensibly so)
of which we vex existence
in our innocence,
make it something
worthy of the trip.
