Funereal

They will say it was Dunthornesque,
my death. They will say it had all the nuance
of "Scenes from Unmade Films",
my most successful novel.
They will say I was having a laugh
all the way to the end,
dying alone in a green room,
a book of my own poems in my lap,
while the audience await my arrival on stage,
laughing themselves silly,
because this is just the sort of jape
I am renowned for.

The blogs will eulogise me,
briefly, and a few hand-written letters
will be sent. My poetry will be read
in the light of my passing away.
They will find some of the jokes a little sad.

Some ignorant cunts
will be pleased.
They will say I was a farce,
all the way to the end.
That the style of my death was typical.
That says it all, they’ll say.