the year of the
christ two thousand and two
the man breathed his last breath aged seventy
-six, to remain seventy-six till the
end of days. almost three of our solar
years have passed and he lies, no more than
a mess of bones and rotten
manmeat, the
little that hasn’t already been
gorged.
a
banquet for all the families and
colonies of the tiny people whose
homes were happily invaded by the
corpse of a man who could contribute no
more to the world he spent seventy-six
short years ploughing and growing life to keep
life thriving on in his world. a banquet
for as long as the flesh of the body
which once belonged to him lasts, for as long
as it takes for it to be completely
decomposed, devoured, digested, made
soil in the digestive system of
some anonymous earthworm. once a
son,
brother,
husband,
father,
granpappy and
lord of his village now no more than a
long, extended dinner for the many
residents of the body in which once
he resided. his eye sockets a nest
of beetles,
tiny black round babies, born
to eat whatever may be left of this
man, come to continue the
circle of
life.
full circle and one man has, as in
life, fed an entire community,
only he feeds this community so
they may breathe the air he couldn’t, the breath
he was denied since two years, so here this
mass of crawling people may enjoy life.
the plant
life on the surface of the world
he will never see again benefit
from the body he can no longer use.
the body he, until now, called his own,
but which will never again be of use
to him, gives life to those people who live
to die and live and keep the
wheel turning,
turning, on and on,
ad infinitum.