So I got myself submitted to the morgue as a dead person, had the toxicology report mailed to my house, figuring my bovine housemates wouldn't open it, my assumption here affirmed by the fact that while I holidayed in june, the gas and electricity got cut off. The exmanier found exaggerated traces of quetiapine, codeine, psuedo-ephedrine, thorazine, and a prodigious quanitity of alcohol. The autopsy was worthwhile too, the scalpel being very tenderly administered, like the tongue of a great lover. My liver looked exactly as I supected - stagnant, black, bloated - and I was pleased to finally get a notion of the spleen's appearance (something I couldn't responsibly divulge here). Whilst making incisions along my breastplate, around midway through the procedure, the examiner, with his left hand, delicately reached between my legs and cupped my genitals, assessing some quality, then enclosed my flaccid, blueing penis in his fist. It sprang, engorged, his hand bolted, I sat up, surgical implements flying scattershot across the cold, marble floor. The examiner cowered, back against the wall. Snatching for needle and thread, I clambered off of the trolley, holding my remaining organs inside of me, retrieved my liver, stuffed it back inside the body wall, stripped the examiner of his coat and belt, secured the belt around my torso, threw the labcoat over me, broke into a neat canter out of the morgue, and went for fish and chips in the pavilion gardens, listening to a delightful busker, peddling brisk spirals of saxophone melody, firing shapes across the barlines, with hazy osmosis and huge polymetric assurance. The sun crept through the pre-autumnal canopy of bronzed, whithering greens, leaves all larval curls, desiccated veins, tiny, brittle kayaks. I listened to around three of his mesmerising exercises, twisted the appendix from the warm folds of my colon, threw it into his busker's cap, and ambled home to write this. Upon writing this, summoning all my waning knowledge of embroidery, I rearranged my organs so that my heart would pump blood directly to my liver before any other organ, hoping this would destagnate the sagging black lump, sewed the lips of his incision together, applied some gaffer tape, made a cup of tea and practices my claw hammer technique on the broken nylon string guitar that EJ gave me, significantly easier to finger-pick than the steel-string dreadnought I got for my birthday two years ago. Though the both have their mutually lovely qualities.
Before admitting myself to the morgue, I received a knock on the door from a guy who claimed to be unable to distinguish anything from anything else. Asking why he figured I'd be able to assist in this quandary he retorted: what makes you think I ned assistance? It's an amazing state. While you opened your door to someone clearly insane, I just shot my load into a fifteen year old schoolgirl with her father's full approval. While you offered your assistance, I just got swallowed by a beautiful, enormous sea monster, in whose bowels I found jewels of such exquisite size and gleam encrusted. While you tried to eject me from your doorstep for gratituitously babbling like a twat, I felt the hand of God anoint me the patron saint of medieval ornithologists. And while you asked to hear my credentials in ornithology, I morphed into a flagstone, upon which you tripped and stubbed your toe, causing you nto fall, undoing all your fine posthumous embroidery, and causing your organs to tumble into the recycling bins, just as the council trucks geared up to collect the contents. As you negotiated the pre-autumnal breeze through the bereft cavity of your ribcage, I saw galleons marching between towers of fine china, their wings glossied with vaseline, as misogynists crowed in exile and tearooms across the country closed due to drought, and as you stuffed your ribcage with feathers from the pillow I just vomited, I stole your bike, folded it into an origami junk and sailed across the sky singing of bruschettas and dereliction in a haiku I stole from your paragraph.
I smiled politely, closed the door, sewed the feathers inside, attached a drawstring to my back, obliged one of my housemates to pull it, and upon doing so, in a robotic, unwinding tone, arched forward and issued the word 'Mum-my'.
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