Cry at your own funeral

no coffin, no urn
resting in a synthetic
peace, I managed to hear
your plastic words at the eulogy
not much to say as the dove
was too lazy to fly away
(some other time, perhaps)
seraphs perform "Don't Fear
The Reaper" through a dropped bass
and auto-tune, eye liner eyes drip
black and pretty behind grieving veils
while the mother whales as her dooms day
hallucinations materialize, "bottoms up"
says the father in his alcoholic regret
once again, both now adrift as
heavy paternal ghosts, heavier
than others, some only came for
free food as their children laugh and play
as their eternal tomorrow promises
cold milk for their thirsty bowl of cereal