A Sketch for my Death

A Sketch for my Death –

Everyone must consider their mortality. For what would you do if you could live for ever? Pay more tax?

Wrinkled like a fermented apple, shitting in your pants, brain not even knowing what dementia means anymore. What would be the point?

How would you die and finally shuffle off your mortal coil? My guess - bludgeoned to death by your children as the bills for bottom cleaning mount up and feeding a toothless, rotten stinking mouth with baby food.

Of course – this will never happen. Everyone becomes history although most of you will not make a mark in it.

I have, but that has not given me the financial security to depose of myself once the rattle comes -  the proverbial leg jerk that hits the wee-wee bucket, the final fart, the starring empty eyes, the leaking urinary tract, the final reach for a beloved - but the beer bottle falls from spasmodic hands.

In clear text. I am dead. Now what? What do I do? Nothing obviously - besides start rotting and letting bacterial formed gas pump up my stomach, released out of two bodily exits and make me jerk about like some dead jerk.

It is at this moment in time when you know who your family and friends are.

I can go to my grave with a smile. For I know my few possessions will be torched on health and safety grounds, and my corpse thrown into the canal. To be chewed up by the hydroelectric facility.

I give light to the world.