"Pop" Like A Party Balloon

In an awkward conversation
about politics or something
a murmur of agreement
runs through the crowd
as if to say, "yes,
this is the best party ever."
Face-first in a vodka tonic
I try to do the wave.

Already fidgeting,
my anxious bile wants to go
to another room, chewing
at a mucous membrane:
ceiling, floor, and four walls
continuously regenerating
though a dull ulcerous ache
penetrates my stomach.

I'll feel better over my dead body,
but more like when and within;
the drapes, carpet, paint
will be singed, licked clean
by my corrosive dread, then,
when my excuses, sticky at best,
are eaten and there's nothing left,
microscopic bodies begin to exhale

carbon dioxide: bi-product of my body's
desire to finally get to the meat.
My cavity inflates, creating pockets
around my lungs; my last, last breath
is dust, unsettling a cocoon of the same.
The pressure builds; my physical form
cannot hold what death has in store
so it blows open:

a) hole, no larger than a dime,
being raised from a well,
unzipping a body bag,
birth's first slit-shaped light
comes shining through. I am finally
free, the world is permeable;
I make my way not knowing which way
is up, which is down, which to go.

b)lood and gore line the inside
of my coffin; life begins as it does
for symbiotic organisms without
a regular host: uncomfortable,
riddled with obvious question.
There is plenty to eat for now,
plenty of bacteria to squirm over;
you could even call it a party.