They’re fucking with the corpses again
Fucking up the corpses
Fucking with the bodies
Plagiarizing the body count
They’re cutting up the text again
Like his body was a metaphor
Like the text weren’t literal
Like his body wasn’t literal
They’re meddling with things
They understand too well
The unremarkable genitalia
The sad objects of control
Taking up the space that should have been reserved
For corpses, their rumored fosse, their
Poorly marked graves and their graves
In the water in the air
The disaster was only a text to you
It was never actual flesh
It was not like the flesh they cut into
Like a promise and a threat
To some day fuck back
Into unprecedented orifices
With unforeseen organs
Until death wasn’t yet
Like a future we could feel
Having only this present
They’re fucking with the corpses
They’re making the corpses into art
Pretending readymade is not another
Name for discovery, pretending they’re not
Subjects and he wasn’t turned into an object
Taking his last breath
They’re pretending there’s no correlation
Between the contextual and the real
How they will tweet about them fucking him
How a network will treat his second death.
