but the wrong angle may cripple rather than kill
and epic fails are so banal.
I think impaling on Buckingham Palace railings
might be a way to ensure a noble demise.
But then the Queen would get all the headlines.
I want to kick it uniquely, poetic;
maybe involving a Nobel laureate.
Pulverised by a particle physicist, with my corpse
dissolved by an obliging prize winning chemist.
I want to get terminally fucked up
by the great and the good.
But perhaps I am being a tad selfish
and start thinking of ways to excellently expunge
my family, friends and hard to lose Facebook chums.
We could be shot and chopped by the Academy
of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences
or hunted for sport by Olympic Gold winning medallists.
Still that would take a lot of organisation
and frankly my dear I am itching for my own damnation.
So maybe it won’t be remembered
or become a trending topic
but this quiet life is killing time and the hour has come
to stop it.
Gary Priest writes poetry, short stories and novels. He was recently published in the print anthology of The Blue Hour Magazine. Twitter: @GaryPriest