If I should die, eat nuts and choke,
don’t bury me here.
Even in my red waistcoat,
don’t bury me here.
I would rather have Batley on a rainy day.
Grass in April, bluebells in a jar.
Dostoyevsky and Tchaikovsky,
would bore me rigid.
The old woman at the gate,
the gulag style fence.
Here even the beatified try to escape,
reach out towards the Moscow Hotel
ten satellite dishes on the roof.
If I should die, alone in my sleep,
don’t bury me here.
There are skulls
on some of these gravestones
and the inscriptions are long and morose.
The thin bark of the birches
is covered in grime, the angels all weep
and the plots are too close.
Somewhere a brass band is playing.
If I should take my own life,
don’t bury me here.
I would rather you left me to drift on the tide, to sleep…
Living on Land 