The Gift

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.

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