A poem about heaven


And the voice said,
Come towards the light.
No, no, left a bit.
That’s it.

Was very bright and clean.
It was pedestrianised.
It had hanging baskets
Presumably full of flowers
That had died in real life.

Looked like Vancouver .
I kneed God in the groin.
As he bent over double I said,
That was for inventing broccoli.
And then someone said,
That’s not god, that’s Morgan Freeman.
I said,
But he’s not dead.
And they said,
He likes to drop in from time to time.

Everyone was very pleasant.
On every corner
A chorus of angels in all their
Radiant glory
Sang hallelujah
Which had the effect of making
Every statement seem sarcastic.

There’s no constipation in heaven
And all the vicars look very smug.
And every moment feels like the brink
Of an orgasm
Which makes normal commonplace chit chat
Weirdly musical.

I found a protractor
On the ground.
Must be missing an angle.

Soon I began to relax
And not regret the fact
That my last words had been
‘What are you straightening your
Tie for?
It’s only a sheep’.

After a short while
I was introduced to god.
She said,
How are you finding it?
I should have said,
I would never worship a deity
So lacking in personal belief
As to demand faith in their existence
As a precursor for eternal salvation
But instead I said,
It’s alright
Apart from all that harp music.

She said
All of your loved ones
Will be with you
For all eternity.
I said,
Have you spent any time with my
Aunt Mavis?

She said,
What would you most like
People to say about you
At your funeral?
And I replied,
How about
He’s moving!

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