Necro-Ophelia

by sean kemble

I haunted this house ten years before I died. After my handsome former face dissolved into cookie dough, and my asocial self quelled anymore ambition. I began pacing the halls and rooms yammering incoherently. A wilted waif. The glamour, the exotic candy I saw in the mirrors no longer frenzied me. Gone. Abandoned like a used up chassis. A meal of me. The reason left. My shallow shell protected me from the ugly. It was the armor that separated me from this vainglorious culture.

The body matters. It weeds out the plain, the weak, and homely. The physique, the figure, must be noticed with envy. It must visually assault the misshapen neighbors. Squeeze the esteem away, makes them doubt and acquiesce to your intentions. Ego is fleshy and meaty, full of pheromones and odor. The beast is willful, wanton, without guilt, craven, and mean. A sodomizing bull, be it male or female. A bottom feeding, cruel, hungry, nailing cock. There is no shame. The monster is you.

When it began, the shrinking, the wrinkling, I denied the finality of youth and prayed, and cursed God for repossessing my beauty. The war, the conflict shredded my last shards of humaneness and bartered any chances of renewal. The worst horrors do not come with gore and a bang. It’s servile and looks like you.

I used to dream about a piggy bank full of silver dollars. Years, I did. From age nine up. Never did I understand until later. Waking up soaked in sweat and urine. Blind and coughing. Although full, the swine squealed for more and shattered. I am the pig. A snorting razorback. Vile and filthy. Stinking, screeching sow am I. Will you eat me? Or shall I pork you. Don’t pretend to be repulsed. You do like that talk secretly. You’re all the same within. I know the tongues you speak. You’re devils, really. Itty, bitty liars. The thoughts, the same. Doctors, priests, retards, and ivy league professors. All ass wiping, lecherous actors. Toothy smirks. Teary pleads. Trolling for bites, strolling in white dresses stiff and tight. Hog monkeys. Not one is better. Only the dichotomous young.

Death is fiction. A momentary alteration. I steeped hemlock tea and sipped like Socrates. A mistake. The visions still remain. My house, wood, glass and stone is now my body. Sequestered without pleasure, tensile touch lost. My sarcophagus home holds on hard. Magnetized to this lot, my estate with a view. To have sun on the skin. Swim in icy lakes. Caress boys, copulate brutally. Oh, to have five minutes with my animal being again. Breathing those carnal smells.

My vagina was strong, it had moxie. A woman’s soul is stronger. I savored the world and swallowed. The power was tasty and toxic. The sport of coitus is unhygienic and coarse. Naked and virulent. A skill for gods and toads. Still, I detect movement and play the room. My brass bed is occupied by others. A mist in ether, I hover and drink the nectar. My ectoplasmic assault completed, I sulk. No pardons for a bygone debutante. The jiggling breasts are missed. No sleep, no sleep, ceaseless reminding. The awareness comes with a rhythmic pain, a concave circle. Linear and sequential. Ticklish almost. I want to stop, dissipate, leave the thoughts to the breeze.

Take the warning. Do not desert the body without preparation. Never coerce the transmogrification. You are not as supple as you think. You are not as clever as you think. See me and hear. Water does not need a cup.

This story is meant to be read after the former post Menial Bones, Dig Here. As before, I continue the rhythm in the same style. This is the counterpoint perspective of the story below. About two doomed lovers who have similar fates. I wanted it to seem timeless without modern references. However, there may be a couple if you look for them.

The picture at the top is a painting of Ophelia by Ernest Hebert. There's no correlation to that story or character. Although, I was thinking about her loosely as I wrote.  A subtle influence, I suppose.

Copyright ( c) 2003 Sean Kemble  All rights reserved.