Floating bloated.
Life aborted.
Rotting sockets.
A bobbing lifeless buoy.
where the river meets
the sewage.

Silverflame Jan 7

The golden leaves have said their final goodbye,
as they slowly fall down the trees.
But never have corpses of nature looked more beautiful,
than the crown they made on the top of your head.

Drunk and violent
I am stumbling over the civil dead
And my toe is caught in their quilt of twisted limbs
There are mother necks
Daughter legs
And fat infant heads
Their skin is a flesh ceramic
That is smooth appearing
Icy cool against my feet
Ceramic soon to be sculpted by scavengers’ ravenous jaws
Into disfigured cradles for writhing spawn of bug

With force I free my toe
I have no time to idle
I am late to my brother’s home

We are in his garden
Backyard desert earth
Greens
Pinks
Woods
Rocks
Clods of clotted dirt
His hands are watering the tangled vines at their pinkish roots
Solemnly he waters with copper tears and spit
To the east I am staring
At the white wall of brick
I wonder what lives inside these spongy chunks

When he finishes watering
He turns his neck
His head
He faces me
Killing my gaze with the porous wall

The lips beneath his compound eye swing wide and fully apart  
He mournfully breathes
Words with sharpened vowels
The letters are sallow blond

My wife
She left
Away
My wife
I slit her throat
My wife
I beat her
Beat her dead
She’s buried by child oak
You smell like whiskey
Brother
You smell like musky goat
You smell like the civil dead that line the path to my wealthy home

Isabelle Nov 2016

I am a walking corpse
Looking for you
To take back my heart
Which I offered you before

Your cold hands
Your harsh words
Your dry feelings
Your empty heart
Is what killed me

I am a walking corpse
Looking for you
To take back my heart
Which I willingly gave you before

My want of attention
Your lack of affection
My want of action
Your lack of emotion
Is what killed me

I am a walking corpse
With a body and soul
Looking for you
To take back my heart

Halloween inspired.
Mike Griffith Oct 2016

The odor is an assault from the roadside,
hits eyes and makes them swim.

To retch is certain, but the mouth,
the mouth is an unlicked envelope.

Gape.

Open eyes, open

Is the air moving?   The floor?

Still  - -  it

can’t move.

The skin, a color not of skin, not doll skin, not wax.
No child of mother ever bore that color of skin.

Turn, God, turn.  Look away,

but look.

Still  --  I

can’t move.

Look away,
can’t help but look that way.

Something creepy for Halloween.

Have you considered being a sex worker?
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than associating with your own ribcage.
You're an actress
no script, just a character summary.

Limp, age 12, non-verbal marionette.
Snaps her strings when forced to dance.
Clings to the ceiling tiles, like the shadows she hallucinates.
Let's the puppet fall numb under strangers.
Ragdoll to be used for kindling.


When you play your part
You'll inherit enough money to afford a studio apartment
in Washington, or Las Vegas; anywhere with men paid large enough salary to afford your vacant body,
three phone plans,
a hotel room for you to stay awake in
Listening to dull thuds against your wrongfully warm corpse
Invited hoping the stinging could form tendons
adhere together like rubber bands
Snap you back into your skin.
You cling helpless to the ceiling tiles
Watch the ragdoll make mistakes.

"Have you considered being a sex worker?"
A homeless woman asked me,
"Unoccupied bodies should start charging rent.
Let a man who can afford it pay for utilities.
You might be homeless
but you won't be wasted space".

Silverflame Oct 2016

You are like a corpse flower;
Beautiful and rare, but with a hint of death

In case you do not know what a corpse flower is or how it looks like, then I suggest you should Google it. It's a very unique and  beautiful flower, but with a foul smell.
Pauline Russell Sep 2016

Lips so red
Corpse so blue
Lips whispers quite
Corpse remains silent
Lips cry in despair
Corpse doesn't care
Lips become still
Corpse welcomes her will

Dae Staebell Aug 2016

My Dearest Black Dahlia
Stumbling in these neon streets
Waiting to be torn in two
Be my carrion pin up model
Adorned in imprinted diamonds
With porcelain skin icy stale
Murderous glamor
Gleaming and serene
Posing like a minx
Half here and half there
A hauntingly mesmerizing woman
Should I be fearful
Or should I be in love
I suppose this is maddening
But I am smiling all the while
Bright and all Irish
Welcome to Hollywood
My Dearest Black Dahlia

Revised an old work
cait-cait Jun 2016

will you talk to my corpse
after im dead?
.
.
.

ask me things like how
was your day?

tell me about
each and every
person
youve replaced me with?  

and ill have changed...
you know?

you're so quiet now
.
is what you'll say,
but i won't respond.

and maybe you'll cry?
the way i cried after you broke my heart--
into
p i e c e s

all while saying sorry and
what not?

and will you tell me the truth?
like the old days, when we were
kids

what caused you to do it?
ill think to ask,
.
but wont...

was it me?
or the first night
you went drinking?

or
will you just pretend that it wasn't
you
who killed me?

i have mixed feelings about this.
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