I’ve made a little shrine upon his desk

My mind will settle not on literature
Like stories, novels, chick lit, shades of grey.
Instead, I’m forced to books that will ensure
No critic  will despise my chosen way

Unconscious phantasy exists in all, Freud said
By radios, I’ve now become obsessed
I tinker with   their chargers  from  my bed
Not for those vibrators,  they’re so sad.

Hence, instead of grieving I caress,
Sadly wish I’d got him  better  radio sets
I’ve made a  little shrine upon his desk
Radio, long candles , woollen vests

His ashes  dwell inside  a hessian bag
I cannot climb Sca Fell with him to drag!

I’d throw him in the sea but he’d get mad

I’ll  put him in a plant pot here instead

I came home from the funeral weeping blood

It got inside the hoover while I blogged

I think I might  well bury him with dad.

I’ll keep him till I die  then he’ll feel glad

I welcome comments and criticism

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