Pushing Up the Six Foot

It fills you up with gas.
The slow processing, the whims of decay. It's testament the pursuance of glorious slop.
How can we stand or stop its path on which we give our thanks and duly falter.
Death will kill us all.
Derma will alter where fats de-butter the limbs, the sinews stiffening like redundant brass.
It is with great regret that I liquefy,
a decanting mass, a wet stain on an indifferent sun, steaming in a pan like collapsing shanks.
My brains run out of my ass.