Piss in Coffins
What is death?
These days it’s NHS Big Data telling you when.
It’s four months in hospital, flooded in Nordic pharmaceutical statins.
It’s eight years in a coma, plugged into the Internet.
They play carny music to make you bob back up.
So they want piss in their coffins.
A piss dirty bomb in their blood.
For the Malaysian surgeon, to add his own lethal weapon
of kidney stones.
Stacks and stacks of piss, in boxes, cream of the crop.
Figuring out the best piss like trying to solve a Rubix Cube.
It’s the new death bed crosswords and sudoku.
No cool-out time, no step-out time, no idler time,
every waking death moment – and how they drag –
you think about piss.
Time is longer with resistance.
The resistance is uterine.
Is milk. An assembly line of breast milk.
Is pre-cum, the colour of Oreo cream, pure stuff,
bull-made stuff they take from a whale penis by
the bucket. Semen worth tens of millions
on rebreeding programmes,
on new animals.
My life in the Kingdom of Heaven is worth thirty grand,
quality-adjusted. That’s hard to catch your breath for.
The human animal wants piss and uterine stuff in its coffins.
Bury me in piss, it’s all they pray about.
Coroner, please let me be progenitor for this new cultural movement.
It’s facsimile, it’s about smoothing out my face.
I did all I could in my lifetime
but it was genetic. Make me look like a sharp-jawed prince!
Put piss in my coffin!
Put piss in my coffin!
Put commie piss in my coffin!
So, with enough court cases they put several commodes
in the coffin.
And the interns who do it are gagging and laughing.
Don’t they know this meant something to someone?
Stuffing their own turkey cadaver with urine?
Go back from 1776 and at some point,
there was a President of the United States who
longed for a golden shower in his tomb.
Horror Sleaze Trash 