Next time I'm in hospital
I won't be hammered out like a steak.
I won't have to phone
phucking parental home
or make unwanted conversation -I'll drink
Isopropyl alcohol,
crank my ipod,
get phucked in peace,
tip water jugs away.
I'll laugh as loudly as I want,
invite as many friends as I need
and leave the clumps of hair in my brush because it reminds me of the embarkation on the final journey,
that cells are relinquishing their grip, surrendering reticulum, pulp
cytoskeletal structure collapsing into the plasma soup.
And swallowing limolene, I'll be already embalmed.
You cannot stop any of this because you won't be invited
I'll tell the doctor's doormen
not to let you in.
When I die it will be my way
or God's,
not yours-
Heaven has no dress code for
broken, boozy sin.
