Musing Upon My Arrangements, Eccentrically Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

And, upon my Death
I've left explicit directives
to those whom i chose
to participate in
the celebration of my 'passing'.

No one, i said, shall look at me
when i cannot look back at them...
with moving eyes.
Closed caskets cost the same,
it's all standard...BUT -
you'll save on the Borrelli silk tie,
and Gionfranco sharkskin,
that i've long designated
for my farewell fashion frontal,
in my sterling silver box,
with a swirling ball above,
back-flashing, those years
of platforms and Travarras,
during my day's with Dapper-D,
the so-called 'King of Queens'........,
and when every crease and hair
had to be just so..............or else!

.....Things are different now.

A tank top, and some denim Kleins
will suit my sleep quite comfortably.
Such 'grave' nonsense it be -
about the cold beneath the sod,
chilling my marrow...
and, my God, Maria,
it's only a breathless shell
of my once strapping stature,

[said the egotistical corpse to himself]

that will everso gradually decompose.
In fact, it's the thought of the bloody earwigs
that makes me bristle, even now;
but they too, shall pass in time and breath
within the claustraphobic brass-locked pine.

So tell me then, without quoting old wives:
How could earths temperature be such the factor?
Are these tales and ornate traditions queer
our attempt to make Death less morose...?
They're quite chilling in themselves, you know!
The practice of pathos & lamentation
may be therapeutic to those -
who can walk away
from that mound of flowers,
expecting another joyous sunset,
and back to backs of Hannity and Sustren.
But for me, the recumbent in sleep,
anything less than my Soul 'bove the clouds...
would surely leave me for dead!



©Frank James Ryan, Jr./FjR
MMXVI-All Rights Reserved