It’s not a tragedy. Nobody thinks so.
Mortality! It’s inescapable.
Want to get out of it. Nobody’s capable.
Get it stapled to the manila folder
of your life when the moment arrives.
A pure certification of events:
birth; vaccinations; graduations; rent.
Then when it’s all over with,
hope you get laid to rest underneath an obelisk
and don’t have to keep hustling on,
ashamed of your shamble like you’ve done something wrong
by swindling the reaper out of one scythe swipe
or turning all the living into fun-sized bites.
You can’t help it. Your life priorities
left with your last breath, and the enormity
of this milestone isn’t noted by your mourners.
They’re too busy wishing you’d go back to the coroner’s.
You have to learn to live with the fact that you’re dead.
There’s plenty of you now and plenty more coming,
and some of them think they’ll survive, so keep running.
But sooner or later we all run out of time.
The trick is to not get stuck one foot over the line,
nothing left but your viciousness.
Maybe that’s all you ever were. Death’s chrysalis
led to the one true you, and it’s hungry.
Eat another neighbor up. Blood on your dungarees.
The guns release bullets. You don’t mind.
Your gullet’s so full, it’s divine.
And this is like a miracle, to linger past your passing,
a blessing that’s lasting: a horde fast amassing.
Please forgive loved ones who aren’t missing you,
photo albums they’re not reminiscing through.
Remember what the preacher at your funeral said:
it isn’t quite a tragedy, you’re not quite dead.
Product of voodoo? Maybe mad science?
Doesn’t matter now. You’re free from reliance
on reasons for things. They all just happen.
Blood just splatters. Didn’t bring a napkin —
so inconsiderate! But that’s canonical.
Consciousness gone, it was epiphenomenal.
Plain talk: haven’t got your head on straight.
Now you’re the one all of them want to decapitate.
Don’t let ‘em! They’re morsels, all.
You can come get ‘em. They’re of course appalled,
but before long they won’t care, like you don’t.
They’ll be craving the long prosciutto
and otherwise undesirous of anything.
Ready for this? Or is it unsettling?
Every one of us has squandered years,
so go for the gory. Bite in between the ears.
