I will be so dead
You will have to invent a fake life
to match my real death
I will be such a big death
that everyone will enjoy
the musical composition
of my decomposing body of work,
inhaling the stench of my improvisations
My blues will finally be about being down, out and dead.
Laying there in my coffin
please know I got dead drunk on tequila shots of formaldehyde
salt and lime my corpse
and make video called "The Dead Gone Wild"
When I die
all the flowers will cry
out of happiness
Now that I am gone
They'll sing:
He will never bother us again!
he cannot torture us anymore with his shitty clichés!
Everyone who is important will show up with crocodiles
cause they will not be able to fake their own tears
Anyone who knew me
will praise my name to the skies with the left hand
while with the right hand they will hold their nose
Oh when I die I will be so dead
no one will really know what to do with me
Bury me?
Cremate me?
Ask the pope to canonize me?
Build a mausoleum specifically for poets
So they can visit my Leninesque physiqueness,
preserving me for eternity to ward off limericks and capitalists?
Maybe just let me rot under a highway underpass?
I don't know what to suggest or expect
When you're dead, you're dead and self-determination takes over
but please:
no accolades,
no praises,
no homages,
no illegitimate children or polyamourists
to denounce me for lack of providing orgasms
or who may want to lay claim to my literary real estates
When I die
maybe sprinkle a bit of mud on your shoes,
maybe wipe my slate clean,
maybe laugh at me for all my stupid mistakes,
maybe remember the nights we spent together,
anything that makes me human will do.
When I am dead I will still be waiting for you
Arms open
Deep sighing
Faking my own life so I can't be dead
Well, really dead but still true...
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