Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Thursday, April 5, 2012

funeral

Funeral
so what
the dimple the impression you leave
is interesting to measure
RIGHT
the dimple the impression
the hole in the ground the cloud of dust
Were you rich
did you have a shit load of little fishes hanging off you
relying on your big teeth to clean up the kill and then they are thrown the
pieces you couldn’t be arsed with
Were you a big fish
Did you have a lot of money.
Are there people crying about it
have you ever seen someone truly cry over someone else
it’s a kind of madness
 a slippage of the brain
a kind of metal retardation
Luckily nearly all crying, though serving the purpose the cosmetic
illusion of I CARE
is the unholy attack of selfish WHAT ABOUT ME
WHAT IF THAT HAPPENS TO ME
WHAT WILL I DO NOW
HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO ME
OH MY GOD I AM SCARED
Did you go to a funeral where the guy was poor.
A drunkard
A bastard
he paid in colourful retellings of his everyday occurrences
Did you put on a big show of his death
hold his funeral in a film warehouse
with a photograph the size of a factory
depicting a non descript hill side with a few rough looking bits of scrub.

Did you tell everyone who came to shut up
While the old fellas retold their everyday occurrences
to the people who were just telling their everyday occurrences to each
other. Perhaps not paying respect to the guy
not talking about him now
 not talking about him then
 not talking about him in the future
just there for the free food
 the booze the meet and look at the people
maybe a job in it for them
never know the film industry
it’s who you know

Do I know what kind of impression I want to make
in the ground on the crowd that will turn up at mine
The crowd
of no bodies
of soulless corporate flesh
 consumers of un holy ground
 lost in a temporal of space
 no sacred duty could ever recover.
 Do I want these people to turn up at my death
 at the culmination of my physical demise
No. stay home
Pick and put your fingers into sockets of warm salty fleshy
Stay home and sip the cool nothingness of being
I don’t care
 I could always care less
 that was one way I could go

I remember a girl who died
 we’d been kissing drunkenly a few days before
she was a star, everyone knew
What she saw in me, I thought I knew
Her funeral was, well they played her favourite songs.
they were good they read out her poetry, that may have been from her diary
they were ok,
ok she was a smart cookie, I don’t remember then
except the part where we each choose a bottle of vodka
Top shelf to drink alone in her memory
wandering the tree lined suburbs of safety
sun on the leaves turning them extra light green
alone with her, I cry now, I ‘m not sure then.                           (2thousand&7)

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