There are categories of hell here.
David died of
chronic liver disease
February 28, 2012.
David’s drinking became his sin.
Sin is the crack of the Devil's butt.
It tossed a good man into hell.
Dandelions faded with him when
the burning began.
His widow was a chronic bitch.
Locals called her "Nightmare Boogie."
His wife of 14 years
celebrated his passing;
she pissed on his pictures.
She was simple, mindless.
Her life was understated, full of fragments.
She got drunk on the night David died.
She thought it was butterscotch wine.
Confused, Cherry Lee, kept it simple;
she recognized the mix up,
it was butterscotch schnapps.
Either way, Cherry Lee helped
evaporate David's heart.
There were no memorial services.
David's ashes are still in a fruit box;
mounted on the top of her toilet bowl.
No urn, present or past tense.
No obituary, too late.
Only a label, a tag on the cinerarium stating:
"this is David's discount Funeral Home."
Fact, I am a newspaper reporter.
I am a chronic drunk.
There are no survivors here.
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