When Whens End

I

When the dear donorcard bill's deliverance kills
& Zack De La Zouch from Ashby-de-la-Rocha
inherits my corneas (I believe in unicorneas).

II

When I'm a recreational relic, comminuted 
& tooted by a jejune 
mumbo jumbo professional, Mama Shango - 
O that Mambo Sheena, she's a
ladydoctor of spooky hooey! 
When my legbeforewicket bone 
a.k.a. shin, not to menchin chin, grin, gelatin 
(untoned, soamilar 
to that of Ol' Retro Fatty Soames, 
who'll be quite the spread when we eat the rich), 
& my long past fey ofay thighs
& all fyffe inches of my interthigh fnarr-na 
are finely ground to a juju smeddum 
Mama Shango crumbles l/ albino sacrifice resin
into a voodoobie, sparks up a snirtle-haven 
even Jesus.H Jumpscare
jumbies can't deaden.

III

When I'm a Uruguayan 
rugger teammate's 
PTSDinner on an Andine 
ice plate.

IV

When I'm past repulsive rasper, 
post-pulmonaryvascular massacre.
When I've given up my last gasp because I couldn't ever
make this gasper the last. 
When I've capitulated my Casper,
after gravel gurgle of my râle de la mort, after 
my outboardmotor voicemail à la Monsieur Valdemar. 
When memoryhaemorrhaging eulogists are ponderous 
& sotte voce,
as far removed as I will be
from funky Fay Wrays, 
dulcet Screamin' Jays,
the rainbow rowdiness of orbling warbs & better days,
at the time mine is up.  

V

When I'm Senor Mucho Sueno, meeting Meesta
Mortimer Mortimer the missingmaker (this latter no
Gallup poll peruser, but the illimitable chooser
of every person's deedpoll to 'Ryan Otto Thyme',
whether we were hail from Calcutta or Corsica,
darkest Kent or Lollapalooza).
Whether gallbladder bleeders
or a 1/4 mil Gallipolosers, all of us were or will be 
absolosers
lapped l/ a catbowl by that mincemeat
mogul, that trimmer the Reaper, 
who jogs ahead to clock in 
chisellaxed floruits so the hyphen's 
not left hanging.  

VI

When I'm dead as a coinop conversion, 
depodiumed from 3-initialled pantheon  
of mythic betas who byte the sprite
out of each another w/  
blocky & improbable kungfu
on a special scartlead channel.
When I'm PK prey to some motherfucker
of a flyingkickducker, 
veritable couch action hero, 
Arnold Schwarzensega, 
some 'NewBieDie!'-greeting, 
PewDiePie-beating 
finja-ninger of 16-bit yubiwaza
l/  90s MooBiePie-eating 
Danny Curley of 'Gamesmaster' fama. 
A hiscorewayman of the highest 
scorder, Mombre's hombre & warriorthumbed 
wristola, a lightening limpet on the d-pad
l/ Speedygonzalesterpiggot 
logrolling an edam home. 
W/ jumplead cannulae in his Jabba 
The Shutt-in bingo veins, 
Ol' Retro Fatty Danny Curley 
of 'Gamesmaster' fama could foresee 
w/ Pyrenese peerin' ease
any hadouken, counter w/ a 
short shrift shoryuken.
Game over. Fuqouken. 

VII

When I've gone beyond a shocking stroll
on a tumbledown terrain. When I'm jumbled
stoatskin, unidentifiable remains.
When erstwhile strappingness is soil steroid, 
gristle gift for the roses
behind a urodorous hospice. When I'm lastminute 
saprophytic herbal rohypnol for rose hipsters
& musefloggers. 
From a vulture's mulch blooms
damask artillery in the battle of the sexists,
botanical trope of blandishment
oftpictup w/ twenny Benson & Aspidistras
on a cancaining, Canaanwavy way home,
or requisitioned by a frugal doghouse ghoul 
from gardens of engravings.

VIII

My carkedit plaque might caveat
'La vie was a lavvy but Eve was veal',
but Miss Lilith Hewett, 
she was the stodge the heart wants, 
sensual suet.
& my carkedit plaque might quote me that
'Life was ngandodowndilly wellingup for real',
yet let some fumiphant divine
Ms. Rosebud Bignold 
at 16, her smile peak blitheness,   
in the cloud of my claripyre,
my crematorial smignels.
For when I'm husk past flames,
past the ministrations of any new pope, 
thou shall hark a serpentine Sid James
in my subcutaneous sizzling, 
the leering hiss of past carry ons 
not so far from my charnel char 
& haunter's quanta, 
whithersoever it may blow
once my urn's overturned, 
spurned. Posthumous fernweh: 
Nantucket, Hunstantucket, Saint-Tropez way? 
Nah,the deadbody of a homebody
could not be more stuck in its ways.
Sprinkle me where you stand, as the crow dies.
For the dead are not so different to the living:
love makes us stay.