I sat in my office this lunchtime, thinking about death.
There is a lot of it about.
Not me of course. I will last for ever.
For most of us, death is a foreign country- one which we are unlikely ever to visit- Moldova or Uzbekistan.
So much of what we do is focussed on avoiding it, delaying it as long as possible, pushing it into the background.
It is no way to live.
So I wrote this poem…
Something is going to kill me
In the end it will polish me off
This machine comes with built-in obsolescence
And already my bearings run rough
Perhaps my blood will turn orange
Or my bones will powder like chalk
My brain is sure to malfunction
And my feet will forget how to walk
I may be squashed like a bug by a lorry
Or an elm tree will fall on my skull
An arrow of misfortune will stick me
As I am gored by a runaway bull
Perhaps we live love then fertilise loam
And this heaven-talk is really moronic
Or perhaps there is something aerodynamic in me
Shaped to go supersonic