My Rigor Mortis

My rigor mortis is never mentioned Anymore at parties; I stick myself to one wall, mothlike And the conversation goes on all around me, As though nothing were out of the ordinary. Though sometimes I do stiffen up A little too much, and then a dolly is required To remove me at evening's end; But at least I am at full length then And not curled up like a pretzel. Complications are bound to arise: It becomes harder to speak each day As my brain is disengaged Within my corpus, from profundity- It's unhappy, that writing is out of the question. When curious strangers ask How I came to be in such a condition, My family finds it difficult to answer Because I started out like everyone else But then increasingly came to deny my own existence As an act of random cruelty, By a creator at the mercy of whim: If life made any sense at all, we would begin as rotting corpse And slowly retrograde, all the way back to babyhood; And die drooling and gurgling, While smelling very sweetly- And die without a care.