They are in her flat now, my half sister's relation, five of them are going through her stuff dividing it amongst themselves. The notion is ghoulish, will they do ditto when I'm gone? Throw my poetry away, and only keep books with a nice binding, placed unread, on a bland book-shelve, in a living room. My paintings, drawings and pictures done by, not yet, famous artists, will be thrown into an attic, collecting dust of neglect.
Disappointed they will leave: 'He didn't have much of value, the old man, only boxes full of unpublished poems, there's his cottage we can get a few thousand for it' Scorched earth solution? Or go for long walks, eat salad, outlive them all; change name too, or their great-great grandchildren will come after me, arguing amongst themselves. You see; what their ancestors said was junk will then be priceless antiques
