What is This Thing?

What is this thing weeping in the darkness, tearing the curtains with its madness as it sits cross-legged combing its hair obsessively? Open stitches stretch across its back in the shape of a door frame waiting to be opened and the key is a knife ripping without respect for bilipid membranes, for the unsealing cutaneous cutlets obscenely emptying out its élan vital voluminously, but prepackaged and stale, as if snatched from a donation box, spilled and left to simmer under an impotent sun whose ultraviolet rays still breed within tissues the blind machinations of cancer, life running amok into the loving arms of that specter Thanatos. Life hates life and loves death alone; the grip of rotting hands and roughly bitten fingernails scratching on polished skulls more resonant than blackboard screechings, yet worse for lended ears. And whose skull is this I find myself holding Hamlet-wise? Alas, poor Yorick, what a scab, an unbecoming bit of melodrama the bard might have left off, but so beloved! In charnel houses rings of fungal nova intercept each other in the graves of not-so-great apes, reaching with their furtive ciliary spindles more delicately than spiders weaving snares supine, spurred on by ungainly flies already stuck and spinning stupidly in their silken graves, wings working overtime, destined only to offer up their chitinous exoskeletons more hastily to fangs, toxins, liquefaction and total absorption into what their captors later became.