I’ve not got long to go. I won’t exist.
I will not know myself. I will not know.
I believe life’s sentience not persist.
Once I depart, every aspect go.

The points at which my end begins and ends,
I will just have a singular sense of.
The moment before nothingness descends.
Thinking now, what comes next, my immense loss.

Such an extraordinary devoid
of anything comprising anything.
And there I’ll be unable to avoid’
‘though ‘I’ll be’ won’t be, or like resembling.

Into a blankness inconceivable,
with my life, … being …, irretrievable.


Where was before birth, no recollection.
Have no conception before conception.
Fate afforded existence protection
and directed it in my direction.

Dormant, unformed egg, and sperm yet to come.
What idea that could become someone?
None, but still the potential to become.
The life possibility conundrum.

This single purpose trait at origin.
For reproducing, it’s the only thing.
That is it, then. That is how I begin.
But thought of it now is imagining,

because no intelligence for knowledge.
Upon death, too, there’s no cognition bridge.


My end, I suppose, I hear warnings of.
Feel bodily indications also.
Unable to deny frailties because
there are some, deadly, throughout my torso.

Internal organs like my heart and lungs.
My blood pressure. My cholesterol level.
What could be, my kidneys, prostate, becomes.
Disease in bladder, liver’s the devil.

Could, of course, be in the head, the demise.
A stroke, or a tumour, or altheimers.
Parkinsons shakes where steadiness derives.
All sorts of failings of us old-timers

But, in due course, with heart failure, be so.
No connection then, head, limbs and torso.


I am not a man to go quietly.
If blown away, may as well be full blown.
Pretty extravagant, decidedly,
as nothing for which I need to atone.

So makes sense, then, a last blaze of glory;
to go up in smoke, charred and grilled to ash.
Won’t be much dwelling on my life-story.
Suitably fiction to say “cut a dash”.

Making a noise might well seem alien;
to shout as loud as am able, not done.
But, what would it matter to anyone
if give voice as go, even angry one.

A ritual with just a couple there,
known or unknown. But this man will be there.


Formless. It is what I will be, formless.
Stateless. In no state at all to matter.
One less. I will count as being one less.
Address. Won’t be any more a factor.

Without any substance. Without any.
Transformed from somebody to nobody.
Inevitable. Inevitably
to be. Alas, like poor Yorick, to be.

Absent. Will be absolutely absent.
Presently, certainly not be present.
Extent. That’s it, the end of my extent.
Meant to be. In fact ‘not to be’ that’s meant.

Enormous to me to become formless.
Nothingness, then. Nothingness. Nothing less.


It’s not welcoming. It’s a bleak prospect,
what is in store for me. Termination.
Live as if it’s some way off yet; and yet
know will be. No other explanation.

It is remorseless. It is relentless.
Indifferent to objections to it.
Fulfils purpose. Completes the intent, best.
There are no other dimensions to it.

Death then, I will certainly encounter.
No evasion, or swerve, comes to my mind.
Brain dead. Nothing then to stay around for.
It’s the way all life on earth is designed.

I don’t welcome it, ‘though it does so me,
to dispose of as useless entity.


The very next second there is nothing.
Loss of consciousness instantaneous.
From then on, the case that won’t feel a thing.
Once we’re dead, distant any life to us.

A future, from there, where life has left us,
meaning without the means to connect up.
We’re gone, and no more living left for us.
With functionality, a direct cut.

The heart stops beating. There’s no more breathing.
No more blood, then, to the brain. It can’t think.
Any movement quickly left or leaving.
Be on your own, but no longer distinct.

It’s instantaneous when death arrives.
The body it grips, and all about dies.


If I am to die sooner than I’d like,
like it to be with equanimity.
Like there to be no bad feeling or spite.
Death, but no monster, in proximity.

If it happens sooner than I would wish,
wish there to be no negativity.
Nothing to make me painfully resist
with fruitless, frustrated activity.

If find no delay will be countenanced;
that no extension is to be granted,
then be granted my wish in recompense,
for what I said as this poem started.

Equinimity, please. For peace of mind.
Thus, naturally peacefully inclined.


Somewhere beyond the imagination,
an ‘existence’ that’s inconceivable.
Have no mind, though, for interpretation,
so, very thought of, unachievable.

How stupid, notions of heaven and hell.
Crazy to consider an after-life,
when not in such a state able to tell,
or with any faculties know as life.

But admit, there are undreamed of places.
Whole universes which contain many.
Have life with extraordinary faces,
where time, there, too, seems an eternity.

But they are not for lives which have grown here.
They’re not to where our dead souls disappear.


Knowledge of one’s own death, does it make mad?
Sanity, a quality judged by norms.
And they may be crazed; collectively bad,
or sad; taking on unusual forms.

Religious, and Spiritual, as if sane,
act as a source of comfort to many.
But illusional workings of the brain.
To varying degrees, absurdity.

In secular politics, there is war.
Killing others on a tribal basis.
Risk to own life from it likely be more.
Pretence that fear of death it erases.

But it doesn’t. It doesn’t overcome.
Just wildness let loose before life is done.


To be started with some trepidation.
Understand there being reservation.
Horror concept to imagination,
corpses going to this destination.

Albeit willed. Donated after death.
Body for use in forensic science.
Could then be subject to all sorts of tests.
Checking decay with ‘in-house’ appliance.

A Body Farm, the current suggestion.
Have several in the United States.
Environment effects, is the question.
Hoping to retrieve facts the death erased.

On the cause, perhaps murder, to know more.
But, a macabre institution, for sure.


Come up to dying with little to show.
That seems to be a strange anomaly.
A lifetime of much happening, I know.
Some could even say, phenomenally.

But only the personal remember.
Outside that, not acclaimed to my liking.
For me, been no miracle agenda
turned to success, by deed or in writing.

Just kindliness as my main attribute.
I think, of course, and have written poems.
To my efforts, … all sorts …, I pay tribute.
But all seems part of the river flowing.

I must, of course, mention those who love me.
That, I can say, has meant the most to me.


I will not know what they say about me.
I will be dead and comprehend nothing.
So what, then, if it’s derogatory.
To me, simply won’t be mattering.

Even were something good to get mentioned,
make no difference, go over my head.
Not be in a state to pay attention,
despite having nothing else to do; dead.

They can say what they like. Repeat old lies.
Old history which they have distorted.
Not be there to argue and criticise.
In standing up for myself, be thwarted.

Beyond me, there will be nothing to say.
Harking back, as will, to back in the day.


Was not that keen. Unenthusiastic.
Somewhat lack-lustre in my visiting.
And seems I do choose to be sarcastic,
in saying, there I was contributing.

I did attend, although like a duty.
I did say “hello” and communicate;
but not so deep as to suit him or me.
For personal sharing, it was too late.

His last years, and whatever mine about,
and the whole history, including her,
meant what could have said, never did come out.
Bridge between us could have been sturdier.

In that place he spent his concluding days.
Was, for these two men, too awkward a phase.


Nothing to ground me. I take off and fly.
Up, I hurtle, into the atmosphere.
Home so distant, it no longer apply.
Whatever is based below, I fly clear.

An impression of having no body.
That what I comprise of, lighter than air.
Whirled higher away, and there’s none to see.
If alone, it’s mingling with all up there.

I thin out, as does the air for breathing.
Become a flatter object, so it seems.
Stealth flyer, at speed, distance achieving.
Only, would have thought, do this in my dreams.

Further climb, until it’s all too severe.
And then, that’s it. I simply disappear.


Existential, that will fail to survive.
Existential, that will try to survive.
Consequential. Alive. Dead. Can’t revive.
Congenital is the whole exercise.

I’m here, for now, to record my presence.
Unclear when will definitively end.
Austere, thought that comes from it, in essence.
With fear, which I seek to quickly suspend.

Want to last for as long as I’m able.
Holding fast to my own identity.
Die is cast to, in due time, disable.
Before the mast, sail to nonentity.

Brave knowing. To keep this way, essential.
The Going … to terms with … existential.


It is a biological factor,
is what the specialist said of cancer.
Its cells, with those of life, interactors.
Integrally, intertwined, close dancer.

Attempts made to separate, and remove.
But it may have the conditions to thrive.
Take a grip, however much disapprove.
Destructive, with the creative, reside.

It is innate, and it has its function.
A creature’s downfall, strictly personal.
Alive, consider it as disfunction,
but part of the ‘living, dying’ cycle.

We know we must end. Perhaps by this means.
Cancer, just scared of because death it brings.


My death is only the death of a blob.
Live organism that’s lived and then died.
Not saying ‘blob’ as though I’ve been a slob.
Just a metaphor for ‘being’ implied.

And with “only”, seems inconsequential,
when it is not to me; my existence.
But that is concern that’s existential.
Said in a way to put in some distance.

But seems the case from Nature’s perspective.
‘Being’ not just the brain; the whole body,
and what it feels like inside, detected.
The sentience and feeling that is me.

A bit of sensation sensing matter.
That’s me live. Dead, and blob me won’t matter.


Preparing for Paradise, it is hoped.
The last of this; the next very soon now.
Conscious after death, and it’s not a hoax.
‘Though not expecting life to resume now,

as hear the pronouncement of my own death.
That is what some scientists said could be.
But I can’t move. Do not have any breath.
I’m just aware of the immensity.

Hear the sadness expressed, and the goodbyes.
Declaration of love by my loved one.
A response, though, I cannot realise.
Just aware; but not of what will next come.

I don’t know for how long until, instead,
lose all consciousness as become brain dead.


The fire soon. Will have to face the fire soon.
Although, when that is, I will be still-brained.
A cremation will be thought opportune.
All I would ever do, by then attained.

The last time. For me, will be the last time.
Although, I will be with a heart that’s stopped.
Last time in this form intimately mine.
Pretensions, from here on in, must be dropped.

The fiery furnace changes all of that.
Transforming by flames into ash and dust.
Immolate readily, the body fat.
The hard bone and skull crumbling as they bust.

Too late for any outstanding desire.
Be, like all of me, consumed by the fire.


Liquefaction may replace cremation
as a method of body disposal.
By means of pour away distillation.
The latest undertaking proposal.

Chemicals and a high temperature
to eliminate the impurities.
White powder remains, to a bag secured,
whilst the water flows away, as may please.

Some municipal concern about it.
The liquefied dead in rivers and streams.
Down drains and into sewers with the shit.
To the water supply, may end up in.

But, I suppose, there’s a bit of panache
to go out, and on your way, with a splash.


That’s it, then. Split up into particles.
Even atomised is too large a size
to describe what remains, so miniscule.
What my imagination now provides

and I decide could well become the case.
Unification no longer in place.
That which been as a whole, forthwith displaced.
Scattered. Whatever next, without a face.

Disintegration, suppose what I mean,
but as if heavily crushed and grounded.
Distributed, to point where no more seen.
If ever were to look for, confounded.

Put it down to chemicals, the matter,
as to earth and air, remotely scatter.