I recite poems to my cat,
Eliot, Pound and Whitman.
I play him Brahms and Miles Davis
and talk about great art.
But my cat simply stares at me
through those dark blue eyes,
and stares and stares,
then gracefully begins to wash himself.
And I realise
that watching a cat washing itself
is a form of meditation.
After an hour
there’s no difference
between washing and watching.
I leave my cache of 20,000 toilet rolls to my niece Concha Platt.
I leave the 350 tins of sardines to my nephew Paul Trope.
The above assets are held in the Kunidion Business Park Self Storage Depot.
The remainder of my estate, financial and physical, is to be shared equally between the charities named in the appendix.
On a piece of waste ground
beside St Joseph’s Church
rough sleepers are roasting a pig,
bought with alms or stolen. Who knows?
They listen, heads bowed,
to the sound of fat falling into fire,
to the growling of their dogs,
to the church bell tolling
and the liturgy rolling across centuries.
Enjoy. Enjoy. Enjoy.
Relish your portion of roast meat
flavoured with incense
and the piety that flows from church doors.
Yes, the faithful have finished worship
and are leaving in peace to serve the Lord,
with tongues of fire above their heads
and handfuls of change to give away
to every poor soul who can face their holy heat.