Mourning wood

Ever notice how funerals make you horny?

I mean seriously, I'm not talking about some sick necrophilia thing, or some sad pathetic emo type 'I can only feel joy in the presence of death' bullshit.

I find at least as much short term companionship at funerals and wakes as I do at weddings.  Something about planting a stiff seems to put the horn into folks. 

I think it might be a combination of pent up emotion, confrontation with mortality, and a deep need to prove that we're still alive.

And, truth too tell, I don't think it's offensive.

When I eventually croak it, I want folks fucking each others brains out all over the place.  Shit, get a four-way going on the lid of my coffin, see if you can wake me up. 

Make noise, get too drunk, get too stoned, fuck random people you barely know, or people you know really really well... Play music, play twister, have a key party...  Anything fun and lively, but send me out in style when it's my turn.

I promise I'll try to do the same for you.

Till then, we'll all try to find comfort where we can, revel in the little ways we can remind ourselves that we're still alive, and wait till we get proof that we're not.






We're an amazing species at times.  7,000,000,000 of us on this fucking rock, and yet we still manage to make loneliness a mainstay of existence. 

We cling to solitude,
barnacle the hull of this battered ship,
earth ship,
time ship,
ploughing generations,
wave after wave,
to what destination we cannot say.

Gifted with just enough to feel joy,
or at any rate to know fear,
that future travelers may bulwark themselves,
housed precariously on our backs.

Battered along toward their own destinations,
to flourish,
to fail,
befriend pain,
court glory,
or perish in the attempt.