The year's dead
still warm but still, stiff
his garlic-and-beer breath
his putrefying innards
his bloating torso
threatens to belch forth
any moment now.

Put him on a cold stretcher
push him into a freezing box.
if you feel like looking
just one last time,
lift that gruff shroud
of sad unpleasant memories
and peek at his ashen visage,
his death scowl, his unseeing eyes
whose lids refuse to close.
don't grimace or shiver
it wasn't his icy finger
touching your spine.

Let's freeze him fast and hard
until he's a log
let's toss him then
into yesterday's pyre
and burn him
into fine ash.
let's scatter him
upon the unrelenting waves
on the shores of time.
let's take a dip together, then.

When we rise from the waters,
let's give ablutions
to a thousand suns.

Once again.