"Mummy?"

"Yes, mysugarsweethoneybunchofexoticflora&fauna."

"What happens when a person dies?"

Fuck.
Why can't you be like the other kids
and ask me about sex or drugs
or whether Mar1lyn Manson
really is the lust-child of Alice Bowie
and Courtney's Hole?
OK - don't bury it in euphemisms
and fairy lights.
Forget you're a mummy...
just tell the truth.

"Well, my self-indulgent emo-warrior princess,
when you die
you breathe a huge sigh of relief,
watch the whole of your life
flash before your eyes, then
follow the brilliant white light
to the land of everlasting peace and tranquility.
Or at least, that's the plan.
What actually happens is this...
You're grabbed by a bunch of paramedics,
they tie you down on a stretcher,
load you into the back of a van,
stick needles in your arms
and stuff tubes down your throat,
then drive like maniacs
along crowded streets
with blue lights flashing
and sirens wailing.
When you arrive at Accident & Emergency
you're pushed through corridors
crammed with the sick and the dying
(all highly contagious)
and wheeled into a theatre of cauterized dreams.
Doctors and nurses stare at you,
ask stupid questions,
poke your flesh and smile grotesquely.
One of them starts pounding your chest
while another parts your lips
and breathes last night's garlic and red wine
deep into your lungs.
Then they all stand back
and a sadist with pads for hands
delivers shots of electricty to your heart.
Well, this goes on for half an eternity
until everyone is satisfied
you're way past revival.
A few solemn nods
(the collective disclaimer)
and you're carted off
to the mortuary,
(which is like a huge refrigerator
but without the ice cream and six-packs)
where you're tagged and stored until
some necrophiliac relative claims your body;
unless, of course, your demise is unexpected, suspicious
or coincides with a shortage of donors,
in which case the pathology team
takes you to a laboratory
where they cut you open,
remove your vital organs
and subject them to a barrage of tests
that condemns you
to 'death by misadventure',
or determines their value
for the next healthcare video auction.
Next up, the funeral parlour
where some guy in a sombre expression
and inscrutable suit applies
a range of macabre cosmetics
to your grey-flannel face
and dresses you up
in clothes designed to fit you
into a fun-sized box.
He lays you out in the economy coffin
so that all those who professed
their love for you
can 'view the body' (just to make sure).
After a day or so
of crying and wailing,
sniffling and dribbling,
everyone has had enough
so it's off to the crematorium
where your best friend
delivers a eulogy
to commemorate some fictional angel
who didn't deserve to die.
More snivelled lamenting
and associated melancholic stuff
after which the capsule is launched
into an all-consuming subterranean furnace.
Then everyone gets completely assholed
and the truth finally emerges.
If you've been a fine, upstanding citizen
your spirit ascends into heaven
where, unencumbered by mind and body
you get to live the life
you always dreamed of.
(until denial is ordained as sin)
Then again, if you've been a morally repugnant pervert
you get to stoke the furnace
for all those yet to die.
And if you've led a shadowy, dubious existence
then you're reincarnated
and return as a priest or go into politics.
Any questions?"

"Oh mummy, you're so funny.
So what really happens when a person dies?"

[You want a demonstration?]
"Go watch television
and learn something about real life, huh?"

10/05/2006

Posted on 10/05/2006
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