Tristan Robert Lange
The Corpse\'s Creed
The smell of formaldehyde wafts—
Its acrid aroma suffocating—
As the twist-snap-pop of the cap echoes.
gurgle
glug
gurgle
glug
gurgle
glug
The fluid pours into the embalmer’s bowl,
Now an amalgamation—
A mixture: antiseptic chemical,
Methanol, water and dyes—
To hydrate. To preserve.
The rot: temporarily stayed.
The bodies are quiet—
Barring breaking hissing wind—
But not always
Still.
Mortis, meet rigor.
Muscles twitch torpid,
Timbered
Tomb-locked.
Still,
The bloated bodies are burial born,
Not long for the outer world,
Awaiting the mortician magician—
Blanched and benumbed—
Cocktail kaleidoscope,
An acid trip through the veins.
hisssss-khaaah
The mouth opens
With a whistle-wheeze—
The sound severs the silence.
The sound of rapid
Beats pounding,
The muscular drumming
Erratic at first,
Then collecting itself
Into quick, steady
thum-thumps
Pulsating within;
Slowing,
The beats bate,
Balking at blackout.
The mouth moves—
Its lips pigmented with
Xerostomic crust—
With desiccated deliberation.
Even a hiss prevented—
Pain in perpetuity—
The corpse cannot commun—
...icate.
A need to pause.
A piercing pain punches
Petulantly, like a child,
Nothing remains still—
Not its mouth,
Not the room—
Just the corpse.
Its body now a canvas,
A grotesque grimoire;
The ink on its pages?
Veins slither like snakes
Shaping symbols and words,
Spelling out something
Spine-chillingly shadowed.
The words—
You’ll never believe—
Are words of clarity;
Yet, still they deceive:
“You’ll be next
if you don’t leave.”
Looking around,
No exits now in view—
Gone are the ways in here—
There’s nothing left to do.
Looking at the body,
Its veins opened out
Into pores,
Leaching crimson ink onto the floor,
Then evaporating into spores.
Deceit in those words,
“If you don’t leave”—
Ever meant to deceive—
Deliver damnation-domination
Upward upon me.
For I cannot leave,
Death holds dominion—
Corpse is my creed.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.