Inane Platitudes

My obituary
shall read that I laid
stark in the dark
mooning the night

and that my soul
was a barren menopausal
womb, hysterectomized
by some diety’s shaky hand.

It will canonize
how I pantomimed
banal prayers;

sent shot-put mouthings
of inane platitudes
to a deaf

dumb

detached

hedonist.

After I Leave

After I leave this lifelessness
to crash the home of worms
and other immaterial substances,
it'll be then sun and moon that will bow
in luminous mourning.

They'll bleach these bones,
force them to weep in their
marrow, absorb pithy sighs,

sponge moans of eulogies,
make rock neighbors knock
hallelujah choruses, stretch
root congregations
until they speak in tongues.

Only then, will I reach
for sporangium's quilt,
neatly folded among shifting faults,
and warm myself
when pulverized yesterdays
get lonely and cold.