misty old son...

"...the question as old as the oldest profession, is there life after death, is still awaiting the final chapter to be written..."

Stop waiting, mate. The "final chapter," as you call it, has been written the moment apes turned into homo sapiens. It just that not every homo has read it yet!
There is only nothingness! Not a darned sock! Oblivion!



The Tram

The tram runs like the exposed
Philosophers run and
Like the priests with
Their acolytes and like the wh0res
With their manicured morals
And
Like the
Brain-blood of the
House-trapped house-
Wives and of the boss-
Owned husbands.


From the depots of oblivion
And back
Again
It receives, as the boudoir
Cistern receives, thoughts of all sorts
And
Intentions from all directions and
Uncouthly, chunders them out
Again, stop by stop
All the way to the Depot.

"Move along the tram, please,
Move along, please, there are
Others waiting to get on. Next stop
Oblivion!"

Cap askew and money bag glued to his
Belly this chirpy
Conductor moves
Sideways up and down amongst
Pinned crabs.

And the tram runs on.