Me Next by T.W. Selvey

Me Next by T.W. Selvey

it’s easier to kill you

if you aren’t already dead!

 

come on, the rigged chandelier releases sodium pentothal, lower from the ceiling and invade me.  i’m overflowing, an unsanitary bathroom in the groin. come take advantage. i can’t speak, as

 

my mouth circles wide and accepts a hose. the gas-powered vacuum revs up.

chaste trachea, suck up the balloon tamponade. it’s ok, years of discipline stretched the throat for this.

                       

“you are a well-behaved toy.” yes, humankind, i am eternally below the age of consent, decide on my behalf and it’s ok, i won’t disagree, staring back unreflecting from a funhouse manic-depressive hall of superego mirrors. dyspeptic beliefs are manually transmitted based on masochist teachings. ritual tardy slips were sent to the grim reaper’s office b/c i’m late. intricacies of language degenerate to ranting complaints to the better business bureau of the libido. infantilized and tantalized, bf skinner says i’m an adult baby, free to go or stay in these dresser drawers / jars / cupboards / glove compartments. various times of the normal bourgeois

 

day i’m insulted / assaulted and assailed with inedible decorative fruit. i’d starve but i’m already dead / not undead / i’m unalive / unthought of / unconceived / unfathomable.

 

charles manson hides in the closet, sips tea and makes witty literary commentary from the confines of a lavish sprawling cardboard box, where he’s serving stuffed animals / fucking out their stuffing / fucking a generational divide where a hole was cut out / watching me watch bloodless gore porn / ennui / then i dream the detectives dig up more in john wayne gacy’s basement. those are my bodies. jealous, i’m 

   

attracting flies and cannibals and the adoration of exploitative documentary film makers.

ed gein / human skin / stitched me up as a hand-crafted couch. sold at a shock value bargain price. the zodiac killer reads a solstice horoscope in the sf chronicle. “scorpio, find summer romance and sexy singles at a friday the 13th death camp / can’t cross to the other side of the afterlife w/o paying the golden gate death toll a suicide threat for five $ or best offer.”

 

a gaping neck is smiling: start thrusting. an autopsy strip club strips away skin exposing the decomposing skeleton underneath the abandoned drive for self-preservation. positive re-enforcement (the deformative power) makes a fun toy of me, rewarding very good behavior with the social treats and toy bits. i want to be bitten. i earned it. i want nothing,

 

which is the product of normal necrophile orgasm, which is jealous for death’s dried sex, the necrophile relations resulting in dead herpes and pregnancy emissions. total enjoyment is stabbing evil’s body, guilty of lacking a normal owner. i will be myself/buy myself a toy

 

if i’m not already dead.

jealous?