contrition should have come
when I let forth a stream of urine
onto mausoleum walls
staining them ochre

like blood piss spews
from living bodes so when
we raised our forty’s
it was a cry of life

no waste from the living
only byproduct warmly given
the dead swaying in Saturday sun
ingesting laughter like jerky

sucking on dick jokes
and brusque fingertips
and curious heads awaking
groaning corpses in tombs

if you bring your spine
close enough to earth
it’s easy to pretend you’re dead
the trick is in the remembering

when I rot I wonder
how many young bodies
will dance on my grave
how hard I will dance with them