This poem is an entreatment to seize the moment and a suggestion that immortality does not necessarily come about by following the rules.

When I die I want to have made an impact.
Not the kind that arises from close meteor contact.
Or that sort which you get when performing the
half stock-broker with double twist from the
top of the nearest skyscraper. I’m less desperate
than that.

It’s not enough to have littered the world
with progeny who didn’t take my name, although
it’s a shame. I’m not bothered by the fruits
of my labour – they’ll wash away soon enough,
on the next technological tidal wave – I only
did it for the money; I did it grumpily
and for financial gain.

There are no cocktails named in my honour.
No twists or slings or things mixed two parts gin.
No sex-on-the-beach brain-cell stunner.
No exotic fruits or names with
Latin woven in to defeat the
brains of spliffy students in their final summer.

They’ll bury me nicely and read Dylan Thomas
poems at my eulogy. There will be flowers, for
a generation, but eventually neglect will come
to stake its claim. Nobody will be remembered
enough to blame.

In time, my skin will putrefy and decompose
and my best burial clothes will unravel around worms
who’ll wriggle through my eye sockets and romp with
partying beetles who’ll munch on my crusty bits and
nest in my pockets.

In years to come, when the creepy crawly disco is done.
When the mound above me has sunk and the veneration stone
at my head has greened with the lichen of a second
generation of dead – who will know I had a clean driving licence
and paid all my taxes on time?

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