Much thought, that I've invested
into the disposal of my fleshy, mangled hull.
Exquisite cadaver, worn and tested,
infested with maggots, fattening themselves
on marrow, digging through my skull.
Take your pick upon my passing,
most I've shared my plans with.
All you who know what to do,
though it might be a minute.
Those plans were made in dire times,
expectant of winter's end in a blink.
Strap my sack of bloated meat to
a float, equipped with fireworks and gunpowder.
Light the fuse, send me to sea, make it rain.
Feed the fish, marvel at macabre shower
of total annihilation and colors of
bliss, rainbows and proud refuge in
endless abstract nothing.
Grind my bones into dust, feed the earth,
grow your plants and inhale my essence.
Satiate your curiosity, save a finger,
fry it in canola oil and do tell
what I taste like
once you're down here with me.
Pick a painting on my skin,
it's yours for the taking.
Frame it, jar it, keep me around.
For the curious occasion that
I rise from the ground
and observe some patches missing.
Stuff me with wool, embalm my cadaver,
set me up in grizzly stance.
Whatever you do, don't mourn me.
I've seen the nature of this world,
enough for seven lifetimes.
Mourn the fact that
we lost one more degenerate
but don't mourn me out of love.
If you feel so inclined then
mourn me out of spite
and take a clue from Thomas,
same as I decided
to rage and not give in.
My plans have changed, I'd
like to stay around. But
should the void ever find me,
read this poem out
and take your pick
upon my passing.
Make my exit
strange, massive, morbid
and wonderfully loud.
