My Vellum

Alluring and demure
In your virginity
Never yet
Creased nor crumpled
Your tight young corners
Remain stiff and pert
In their newness
Your long lithe sides
Tense for my careful touch
Lest blood be spilt

My gold nib
I dip
In midnight ink
Piercing its surface skin
And lift

It drips
One

Two

Black
Secrets
Back to their bottle

My hand is poised
Over your pristine smoothness
And with calm precision
I carve broad majuscules
That twist and cut
To hairlines of breathtaking
Intimate intricacy

Quick teasing serifs
Long lingering descenders
Strokes of tactile
Joy

Then stand back

Empty
In wonder at
Your calligraphic beauty

Faceless books relive life as pseudo-abbreviated scribes
the tip tapping of helvetica lies reporting banal times
falsified laughter coughed up between every three lines

Faceless books wasting precious time
gathering the masses for the fanfare of a couple of guys
and gals.

Crippled by conformity to fit within cyber-society for cyber-friends and cyber-lives, virtually living a virtual life without virtually living in the first place.

Posing pursed lips and filming grainy video clips
one-liners of the wall signers pretending to pretend to care to come off as they actually pretend to care to begin with.

Two hundred and plus empty entities and counting, the next person met can subscribe to my life now.

The shovel hits the dirt in softened thunks

I hope you come up whole, and not in chunks

You’re buried deep, at six feet down

Was she buried in jeans or in a gown?

I hope to be your Romeo from a thousand romance plays

Nevermind, I think you know what dead girls can’t say

Nilsen gave me some sage advice

Don’t ever go to the same yard twice

And don’t toss the old ones in the sink

That’s one good way to get tossed in the clink

Six feet of dirt now to my side

You’re coming with me, you’re taking a ride

You thought the hearse was the last of your life

Don’t be daft, honey, you’ll soon be my wife!

Your coffin smells, my dear it’s true

It is no matter, I love your blue

Skin, your thinning hair

Into your fading eyes I stare

As I caress

That cold dead spot

Beneath your dress

I hope, my dear, you don’t mind the trunk

My head is swimming; am I in love or just drunk?

Oh, if you look upon my trunk with dread

Would help to think of it as a marital bed?

Maybe some wine to get in the mood, with you by side

Just the moonlight a pint of the Wild I

I know some look upon me strange

And some would call my love deranged

They don’t understand, they’re far too ******

This isn’t a curse, just a hobby

If they saw me like this I know they’d panic

But I’m not crazed, on drugs or manic

I feel peace when I see your lipless smile

I know I’m just a harmless necrophile.

A true writer never dies
whether in his truth or in his lies
Whether melancholy or blithe

His words will speak perpetually
through a reader's eyes
Each word ascends from the pages gracefully
And there is no need for goodbyes

With his readers now breathing his breath
in his dying, there is no death