"I’m dead now. The rest is posthumous."
The porcupined phallus relights my night. I wake to it pricking my leg, smacking my face, defacing my lace cloth that I value above my life. Porcupine-d won’t go back to sleep. My clutche-d loosen a bit as the pork is real is realized. Slitheriding across my chest, spewing its sweaty mess, leaving me…with a feeling of post swim pool’ed adolescence and restraint. I feel me standing on the concrete ground with intoxicating chlorine settled in my ears, and the group I'm with leaves, my mother leaves, someone is leaving.My renewed clutch-ed reifies nostalgic wishes: “I wish I were young,” wish “I wish I were giddy,” wishy “I wish I knew everything again." And the wishie passes—nee! washes, right over the same path the porcupine lathers. I know now that when I unclutched my hands upon awakening I was dead and my reification was posthumous.
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