My Beauty

by Ian Mullins

The most beautiful thing
about death
is that it never ends.
There is no question mark
hanging on a life sentence
like a sober friend
dragging the drunkard
down. Imagine the joy
of retiring to bed
knowing you’ll never need
to wake.

Now imagine the terror
of the God brigade,
armouring themselves
with crosses
and whips
and bodyguards of tears,
knowing that only terror
and judgement awaits;
followed by eternal torment
on a scale so gross
that forty years
of nine till five
will seem like sunburn
beside it. Where’s the glory
in living forever
when you’ll spend it
on your knees? You’ll beg
through the afterlife
the same way you begged
through this one.

I’ll cut you a deal, old man:
you don’t pray for me
and I won’t pray for you.
And if God demands
my contrition
tell Him to pray for mine
first,
and I’ll see what I can do.