There is still hope. The cleanup committee still lacks the proper instruments for dealing with our contemporary autopsy but we have found some fully open areas. It seems our world is framed with vaulted metal and lined with pristine, talon-like, glass protea, sometimes called “sugarbushes” but only in the vibrations of articulation. Bright spaces that are tall and angular but without correct shadows in a textual discord inform our movements with a kind of sensual disjunction. We can move through the open disseverments of our own seductions this way. Our own dead bones once awash with things like the marrow of life can now caress our hair unwittingly as we walk past just beneath. We’re allowed to ignore the whole gallery effect of sparkling body parts and extra clear eyes. Our thoughts won’t imbue them. How could the white trinkets of death ever have been imbued anyway? I guess our thoughts just can’t help but mingle like this.
And yet still we can decide certain things about the darkness and bright walls of euphoria we pass through, ghostlike, for ourselves, all the while dragging the acres in measured bodies behind us, small white flowers in a splattering trail like milk falling out of a brain. We can drag the heft of our obscure derisions and the rations of our saccharin, girlish wonder into a plain design of our own deciphering. Like laying out a pattern of Pantone tiles and then setting them in a black paste we didn’t see at first, we can map out the ornamentation of our human prescription. After a long fast from assemblage, we can drag ourselves up to the counter of feasting on our own form, or at least watch it flop back and forth behind our unusual and detached gait and feel secure that it won’t open a dead wound in a playful fit of recompense.
There are tales that the body can still have spasms or even sit up and look around, wild eyed, once it’s dead. Stories about a baker’s mother finding her own deceased thought of herself in a layered cake replicate of Dante’s Inferno, like a figurine in a king cake but made out of old, hardened fat renderings sweetened with an ambiguous kind of misery. Stories of the word “clit” being used as a trope of itself, “clit” like not the human form of it but as the human form of it, and really, not that either. Definitely not the particular, the living or dead version, definitely not my clit or yours for that matter, assuming you’re dead like me. They also have no social decipherings or secure process of understanding, psychological implications of their lifeless matter or a surge of white flowers they transform any garden of displacement into, and
if, like a wicked corpse, I could visit my own private room of necessity, I would resist, for at least five minutes, before affixing princess pasties and painting on formaldehyde laced body glitter and I would take a sedative before several sheets of acid and I would not, most definitely not, divert my own eyes away from the bloody needle as it laced my mouth shut with a hallucination of unwonted sexual elation, like a dead body gets from being on top, but sprouting from the dripping, red corners of my disintegrating faculty of reason like blue and purple lupine, nor would I allow them to overgrow into hauteur concomitants of bourgeois headstones, like the most stylized critique of a grave, even styled almost like the body buried there, perhaps even with cute little hats and knitted dresses to look like well dressed worry dolls, dolls replicating their own lifeless design, or rather, revisionism.
Because before all of this, before I could undress and then apply the obscurities of my ambiguous revelations, I would sit inside my body and observe the room that contained me. For five minutes I would scan the wet walls and the rounded corners, searching this most private space of granted necessity, until their empty faces started to form. For five minutes I would stand conscious as their ghostly outlines filled in with undeniably more and more opaqueness until the space of my bodily room started to heave and sway with the weight of their suffocating presence. Around me I would feel a thick fog of pressure on the momentary organization of my mind. I would realize, for having no other way to sell it, that a little girl with scissors cutting the head off a stuffed bunny is still a little girl, even if she is sexually aligned as a water buffalo in her mother’s lingerie store. Even if that little girl is a proxy. Even if water buffalo have gone extinct (have they?) and even if lingerie is really camp as Christmas. If ghosts materialized in those five minutes and crawled around my skin like miniature cats, then the hallucinations of my youth would absorb them through a kind of chitinous exoskeleton surrounding the entire design of my lifeless anatomy made soft and replete from soaking in the placentaesque fog of permeating resistance from the multiplying pile of that death that comes before me and all of its implied insistence, until there is no other choice but to use the synthetic tropes and markers of mental space turned against itself, and with its own design. In such a densely populated, finite space all anyone could really count on, I guess, is the inevitability of mutations due to the undeniable pressure of those who will not be ignored, even with unmarked graves, even if just for 5 minutes but a 5 minutes that will not extinguish itself enough to end.
From outer space, in a beam of supernatural light, an intuitive impulse has infected my highly decorated, internal organs and obliterated my crystal-encrusted solar plexus. Heaped in the now gelatinous blob of my mind’s eye, I can roll around in a powder made from a sweetness of a different kind, otherworldly and a slightly bitter confection, like spun sugar on cooled marmalade soup, or like the extraterrestrial goodies of the hypnosexual. I meant to say hypnosexualesque which can only point to the intergalactic vault of our archetypal ideas for foreign life-forms. To speak in words filled with the history of thought, the inevitable is a topographical mixing of secret isolations, the mind, still dressing and combing the hair of the dead, in a jar in Bermuda, the mind of the body in parts all shooting their holographic images in from separate galaxies made out of pulp and two dimensional tropes (by hypnosexualesque and by way of split-level reasoning, I of course meant to say alienesque and so crazily formed like a third -eye sexuality with antennae and plump, mature, fully formed, intellectual processes unlike any breasts ornamented with sticker rhinestones that you’ve ever seen, because they’re not) the mind, with all of its possible variants from outer space, ab aeterno, will mutate its alien necessities into a fine sugar of death crystals and galactic impossibilities.
I’ve come up with no other way to market this.