Of Ageing

To keep up with the actual
rate of which a carbon life
form breathing air decays
I find I am making the short
trip through the painting
storage room
to the small bathroom,
more out of the condition of unbelief
that I am dying
in drips, filling a pool of dying
by the milking breast of each heartbeat,
and will be dead on a day as actual as this is,
each time the peddle turns, each night the
wheel revolves, arriving
in the bathroom to check
on the recognised ‘I’ in the white room
a magenta towel-curtain paints
rose with sunlight on late winter
afternoons, and holding the round
stainless steel Morris Minor
bonnet mirror I view the back
of the beginning to thin crown,
and the silvery band
now running from ear to ear
because who is looking out
of these eyes, isn’t older, isn’t any less
dead, look at the chest and torso,
firm, athletic, youthful & evenly built;
the latissimus fan improved; the tight
buttocks; the steady heartbeat of a runner
keeping up and passing men younger
at our young gym, all suggesting death
as some thing taught to us
to believe, a thought which is actually wrong,
put, exe.-like, into external fields
as interference, dominating
rates of internal repair, active in firmware
now, designated thereafter on auto-
update…And those about us,
dollah-sized, empire-scientific,
who endeavour Deselect
Uninstall Delete…? Dying’s alright
when living’s incomplete.

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