With A Little Help From My Cremators
I can't face anything without a face;
can't grasp & grip, hold or withhold anything,
with no hands;
can't walk a mile in anybody's shoes,
without feet;
cannot see what you mean, lacking eyes;
can't tell what you're getting at,
without vocal cords, tongue or oral cavity;
won't smell something fishy without nostrils;
can't hear the worlds turn, the seas breathe
or the angels hiss,
without ears;
can't be scared shitless without rectum & anus
– but I can take the heat of the oven
and dust my broom
(with a little help from my cremators)
– to spend the rest of death in a cinerary urn;
my self safely returned: thanks for the loan!
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2026-01-17 at 06:41
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