5_trope | Dear Confessor

Dear Confessor

Ben Segal

An initial penitent catalog: the abrasion of cellular effluvia, the pumice stone exertions, the incantatory self-denunciation, the barbed twine arcing and whipping. Those little teeth don’t so much bite as tunnel into the skin of my back, my dermal excess piles to the floor. These ablutions accrete. They build a wall against and between sin.

Please tell me what else I must do.

The scent of my body is lost to my oil-grease coat. The skin I have now is innocent and unbreathing. My hood is fine and shaming. The uneven blooded streaks and patches gorge and shift with my sweat. My teeth feel mirror polished.

Please accept the enclosed photographs as evidence of my good will and repentance.

I am now building an army of witness. I am taking the skins, which retain the shape of my body, and I am stuffing them full of the blood-stained jelly. I am sewing them closed with my excess floss. These jumbling jelly men, jelly mes- they will line the walls of my room to watch the discarding of my parts and the birth of each new model.

I will pack one and I will send him to you, and you can ream him through or suction out his stomach. You can tattoo him with the proper names, run him over, feed his body to the stray dogs that gather some days near the southern edge of town.

I have sent you a floss hood for him. I have sent you the materials for embalming and a full-color set of spray paints. The enclosed map is a regional account of this body, organized according to sin.

I will tell you something that may mean I am forgiven- I am no longer in constant pain. I’ve smelled my stripped skin but not tasted. I think I have smoked out the sin from my person.

So they don’t go bad, I have enclosed the strips in a vacuum sealed container.

Feeling cleansed now. Have you partaken of my flesh? I am allowing my skin to grow back and it feels tight and strong. It feels good to wash.

I have told the others in town about the razoring practice. My own eight jelly men have been joined by several dozen others. Many of them are women. There’s enough space at the old mill, so we’ve set a cold temperature and placed them together in the stockroom. They are wearing the proper hoods and each one looks skyward in the correct and humble manner.

A minor disaster: Sheila Mitchell caught me holding her jelly body, its head crushed, its breasts pressed into my face. I was taking the body to the barge-stack by the pier. Those big soft jelly breasts squeezed around and fitted to my head. Sheila Mitchell accused me of suckling and jelly-body molestation. We should’ve clothed more than the heads.

The skins I’ve sent this time are properly crisped. Again they’ve been vacuum sealed. More may be difficult to procure. Since Sheila Mitchell’s jelly body incident, the townspeople no longer trust me. They are beginning to ask why I know the penitence rites in the first place.

Please advise.

The enclosed skins are prepared exactly as requested- pure hickory smoked to a tender consistency. Also, I keep thinking about Sheila Mitchell’s jelly breasts. A slight skin-tear in the left areola leaked interior jelly onto my cheek. I tongued the side of my floss hood, tasting. I’ve shaved my mouth interior as a precaution. This should explain the pinker strips in your vacuum bag.

Further news: my body aches and is difficult to move. Sheila Mitchell has continued to cause trouble and I’ve now been denied access to the body holding area. I sit hours, dreaming of her razored skin, the faint taste of her insides mixed with petroleum jelly. I know that body is still in the stockroom with its flattened oozing hood, lush breasts, its trails of jelly creeping down that torso…

In spite of set backs, I remain dedicated and purifying. Still, I fear I must give up on the destruction of jelly bodies. Perhaps you could persuade the townspeople of the necessity? For the moment, I am out of both ideas and skin.

I did not follow your instructions to the letter, although I found them good and reasonable and although I am in no position to doubt you. I will explain:

I approached the old mill with all of the proper implements. The storeroom was unguarded and I realized that one of the windows was unlocked. Deciding I would be better able to ensure total burning, I climbed into the window with my gasoline tank and covered each body with a healthy dose.

I crawled back out, lit the hood/skin ball, and sent the building into leaping flames. At home I prepared the straight razor, discarded a skin layer, burnt it as instructed.

Sheila Mitchell’s body I saved. I pulled it out, headless and jelly-slopping. Sheila Mitchell was right; I am tempted to jelly suckling. I am only touching the leaked jelly, not forcing any expression. I leave it sit on my gums, taste it long and subtle like chaw.

What must I do as penance to keep this body? I am not worried about animation, only sin.

Quite the opposite- things have gone right. Following weather patterns, Sheila Mitchell’s body and I have managed to maintain her animated state. Against your recommendation, we have not had sex, as she is not attracted to me physically. Lack of intercourse has not been detrimental to her animation.

Sheila Mitchell’s body functions well. Her head slumps, but otherwise the body is perfectly functional.

We’ve removed our floss hoods and use them for fishing nets. The fish in this river are good to eat. Perhaps you will like them. Enclosed are two fish, cleaned, smoked with hickory and cardamom.

5_trope An Online Journal of Experimental Poetry and Prose
Archives Contributors Current Issue Editor’s Note Masthead	Dear Confessor Ben Segal An initial penitent catalog: the abrasion of cellular effluvia, the pumice stone exertions, the incantatory self-denunciation, the barbed twine arcing and whipping. Those little teeth don’t so much bite as tunnel into the skin of my back, my dermal excess piles to the floor. These ablutions accrete. They build a wall against and between sin. Please tell me what else I must do. The scent of my body is lost to my oil-grease coat. The skin I have now is innocent and unbreathing. My hood is fine and shaming. The uneven blooded streaks and patches gorge and shift with my sweat. My teeth feel mirror polished. Please accept the enclosed photographs as evidence of my good will and repentance. I am now building an army of witness. I am taking the skins, which retain the shape of my body, and I am stuffing them full of the blood-stained jelly. I am sewing them closed with my excess floss. These jumbling jelly men, jelly mes- they will line the walls of my room to watch the discarding of my parts and the birth of each new model. I will pack one and I will send him to you, and you can ream him through or suction out his stomach. You can tattoo him with the proper names, run him over, feed his body to the stray dogs that gather some days near the southern edge of town. I have sent you a floss hood for him. I have sent you the materials for embalming and a full-color set of spray paints. The enclosed map is a regional account of this body, organized according to sin. I will tell you something that may mean I am forgiven- I am no longer in constant pain. I’ve smelled my stripped skin but not tasted. I think I have smoked out the sin from my person. So they don’t go bad, I have enclosed the strips in a vacuum sealed container. * Feeling cleansed now. Have you partaken of my flesh? I am allowing my skin to grow back and it feels tight and strong. It feels good to wash. I have told the others in town about the razoring practice. My own eight jelly men have been joined by several dozen others. Many of them are women. There’s enough space at the old mill, so we’ve set a cold temperature and placed them together in the stockroom. They are wearing the proper hoods and each one looks skyward in the correct and humble manner. A minor disaster: Sheila Mitchell caught me holding her jelly body, its head crushed, its breasts pressed into my face. I was taking the body to the barge-stack by the pier. Those big soft jelly breasts squeezed around and fitted to my head. Sheila Mitchell accused me of suckling and jelly-body molestation. We should’ve clothed more than the heads. The skins I’ve sent this time are properly crisped. Again they’ve been vacuum sealed. More may be difficult to procure. Since Sheila Mitchell’s jelly body incident, the townspeople no longer trust me. They are beginning to ask why I know the penitence rites in the first place. Please advise. The enclosed skins are prepared exactly as requested- pure hickory smoked to a tender consistency. Also, I keep thinking about Sheila Mitchell’s jelly breasts. A slight skin-tear in the left areola leaked interior jelly onto my cheek. I tongued the side of my floss hood, tasting. I’ve shaved my mouth interior as a precaution. This should explain the pinker strips in your vacuum bag. Further news: my body aches and is difficult to move. Sheila Mitchell has continued to cause trouble and I’ve now been denied access to the body holding area. I sit hours, dreaming of her razored skin, the faint taste of her insides mixed with petroleum jelly. I know that body is still in the stockroom with its flattened oozing hood, lush breasts, its trails of jelly creeping down that torso… In spite of set backs, I remain dedicated and purifying. Still, I fear I must give up on the destruction of jelly bodies. Perhaps you could persuade the townspeople of the necessity? For the moment, I am out of both ideas and skin. I did not follow your instructions to the letter, although I found them good and reasonable and although I am in no position to doubt you. I will explain: I approached the old mill with all of the proper implements. The storeroom was unguarded and I realized that one of the windows was unlocked. Deciding I would be better able to ensure total burning, I climbed into the window with my gasoline tank and covered each body with a healthy dose. I crawled back out, lit the hood/skin ball, and sent the building into leaping flames. At home I prepared the straight razor, discarded a skin layer, burnt it as instructed. Sheila Mitchell’s body I saved. I pulled it out, headless and jelly-slopping. Sheila Mitchell was right; I am tempted to jelly suckling. I am only touching the leaked jelly, not forcing any expression. I leave it sit on my gums, taste it long and subtle like chaw. What must I do as penance to keep this body? I am not worried about animation, only sin. * * * Quite the opposite- things have gone right. Following weather patterns, Sheila Mitchell’s body and I have managed to maintain her animated state. Against your recommendation, we have not had sex, as she is not attracted to me physically. Lack of intercourse has not been detrimental to her animation. Sheila Mitchell’s body functions well. Her head slumps, but otherwise the body is perfectly functional. We’ve removed our floss hoods and use them for fishing nets. The fish in this river are good to eat. Perhaps you will like them. Enclosed are two fish, cleaned, smoked with hickory and cardamom.