Posthumously.

The black sarcophagous of wet teethy moldings.
So deep as thick clots of bloody motes
A single flair of light unable to squeak through.

Worms like flat fleshy fingers, poking absentmindedly
until one is a shame, the two of blind coincidence, and three is doom.
An air of poison gas replacing oxygen in bloated cells.

The eyes are first to blow red as firecrackers, and weep with heated swellings.
The brain of a sponge gathering genius drippings of
greasy sardines and a single forgotten bean withered with age and temperature.

And the end is a flutter of clumsy hands, scrambling for paper writings rightings
Clean as gold and lovers at the end of long orange noses.
Greedy like pigs slopping apple cores in their hoovings and dirty spindly tails.