Let’s face it,

people are so bloody morbid

about death:

all those intense long faces

or smiles of sweet condolence;

and the flowers- heaps of stupid flowers-

too many flowers,

flowers that we should actually

give to those who still have life.

 

Yes, morbid is the right word:

we dress in black

and stand around in deathly poses

looking suitably sad,

nodding our heads in deep respect,

when sometimes we are actually glad

that the person is gone to perdition,

especially when there’s money

coming our way.

 

And what an industry is death:

funeral directors, life insurance,

death plans and ladies in white,

not to mention priests and

other religious types

sprouting their godly stuff

about the next life.

 

Well, if it keeps people

in a job, then who am I to complain;

it’s a good thing, isn’t it?

 

O death, where

do you take us?

 

Where does the seeking soul

go as it ascends to places unknown?

To realms beyond?

 

Probably to the heavenly

local pub,

where you can eat

and never get filled,

and where you can drink

an amber brew and never

get drunk, as you

hangout with the

master of the universe.

 

Actually, I like the

Irish way of doing death,

and god knows they’ve had

plenty of practice over the centuries.

 

They have a bloody great big

delicious and drunken wake,

and they eat and drink and laugh

and remember and get totally pissed

as a way to remember

the dead person’s short life

and to forget that they’ll go

the same way one day.

 

Ah death, where is thy string?

 

Right in my bum

because you really are

a pain in the arse.

 

6/4/2017