![]() When I die | day nine poetry monthA Poem by Arnoldo Garcia![]() This is white humor poem about dying.![]() ![]() When I die 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 s****y 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... © 2014 Arnoldo Garcia |
StatsAuthor![]() Arnoldo GarciaOakland--Matamoros-New York, CAAboutI write and scribble every morning over coffee, half- asleep, dreaming a different world or where all the other worlds come crashing in on the one that has me captive/captivated. I belong to many fami.. more..Writing
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