“Funeral Blues,” “Past’s Dreamland,” “Funeral Parlour’s Instructions”

When I die, bury me in a bright red dress,

the colour of the blood that pushed through my veins

the fire of life and love’s caress.

 

When I die, bury me with red bright lipstick on,

to dilute the grayscale of mourning

brought by the passers-by.

 

When I die, bury me in black shoes with bright red soles,

as my feet refused to walk through the dullness

of routine’s treacherous shoals.

 

When I die, bury me on a smooth silk lining.

I want my body to feel the softness

of life’s embrace one last time.

 

When I die, bury me to the tunes of jazz

on which I danced my life throughout,

let them dance me to the other side.

 

When I die, burn my coffin down, like the Vikings

sent their dead to Valhalla.

Let the flames tell the story of my likings.

 

When I die, scatter my ashes at sea,

spray them from the plane I used to fly,

let me be free, as free as I was alive.

 

When I die, do come to say goodbye

fret not, mourn me not,

we shall meet again on the other side.

Dreaming of the past

I wonder when to stop,

as dwelling in shadows cast —

it’s certain that away I’ll chop

the now, the then, the what’s to come —

all slaughtered for its grand,

promised happiness for the dumb;

all slaughtered for the bland

memories of the touch of the hand;

all slaughtered for the lack of graves

in the past’s Dreamland.

Start by going to the morgue. You need to identify

the body,  you don't want to end up with someone else's

body at the funeral. If you can — send someone else.

Or else: the curled up body, with mouth open, yellow face

of your mother will stay engraved in your brain forever,

You'll try to remember her as the one she once was, but

you’ll soon realize you’re useless at that. If you have to —

approach slowly, usually they bring them feet forward.

Do you know your mother enough to recognise her feet?

Take your time now, memorize them, look at them every time

you get the chance —don't you dare look at her contorted face

when the stiff body lays there; you won't recognise the face

anyway. Toes, feet, hands, hips, legs — memorize everything

up to the neck. Don't look at the dead face. The memories

of it will burn down all others stored, throughout the years, in

the Alexandria’s library of happy moments.

Go to the government’s office: they don't let you bury

people without a death certificate. In front of the

office, take care to notice the coffins and their prices.

Different shades of brown, short and long - know your mother’s height,

choose one where the body will fit. Pick the inner lining

for the coffin: choose the soft silks, only the best fabrics.

Choose a time for the funeral. The day is already

set: three days after the death. Don’t think of other people:

if they cared for her at all they'll just come at any time.

Did you agree with her about all the details she'd want?

No, you haven't? Do you know your mother enough to guess?

Take your time to learn her, memorize all of her like a

history book — one day she will become your history.

Now you have to take the phone. You know what's coming, don’t you?

Call everyone and push the words “Mom's dead” out of your throat.

Drink some whisky, don’t break down, you still have things to arrange.

Pick the cross for her grave. Would she like two flowers on it?

Do you know your mother enough to know her favourites?

Bring her last clothes. Pick nicely, It's her eternal outfit.

Choose her favourite dress, or go buy one she'd really like.

Do you know your mother enough to know what she’d fancy?

When you get home, DON'T. GO. TO. HER. ROOM. It’s filled with absence.

Spare yourself, there’s no reason to drown with the Titanic.

Only the devil knows the countless times I drowned in that desert.