This is a poem about death.
More specifically my dying
The horror comes first.
A body dead
Is a disgusting sight
Something accurst
More useless than shite
As Heraclitus said.
My body
Remember age nine
Undressing in my bedroom
The rudeness and delight
Of physical self discovery
Now
Cancer rot.
What happened to my left leg?
Into the incinerator.
The Breton philosopher La Mettrie
Said dying could be a voluptuous experience.
He was a doctor and had seen much of it.
He recommended opium.
My soul
The idea of a soul
And eternal recurrence.
Such a discovery
Might just hit on the verity.
Aristotle however
Says the soul
Is only the form of the body.
But what sort of existence
Do forms have?
The crown
And from a different viewpoint
Death is the crown of life
If what had to be has been done
My message gone out to the nations
With some expectations
Of becoming a famous poet
Posthumously.
This is some insight
But all is alteration
Including moods.
I may take consolation
From those who love me.
