"necrophile" poems
[Crime-scene. Time ceases to exist for YOU,
the necrophile. YOU are on top of the corpse.]
YOU:
Cadaver, corpse, a body's just a body
and yes, I'm guilty, sleeping with the dead
it loves me, then it doesn't love me.
[Beat]
The rosary you must! To rest in peace, so
transfigure me baby while warm on my bed.
Cadaver, corpse, a body's still a body.
Indulge me; martyr to your livid beads
please intercede for me, oh, please I beg
for it loves me, then it doesn't love me.
[Beat]
Now shall I exorcise you; set you free, from
the purgatory found between my legs?
My body, yours a corpse, but still a body,
And when your sinews loosen, skin erased
by time who shows no mercy for the dead,
will you still love me then, or won't you?
[Beat]
To resurrect is daunting, but you shall have
the body that my kiss declares undead.
Cadaver, corpse, a body's just a body,
which loves me, 'til it doesn't love me.
[Exeunt]
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 3:03 PM UTC
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 snobby
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.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
My dear damsel of glaciers and scuttling roaches
In Andean splendor you startle my heart.
Still seeking a summit, your coldness reproaches;
So little I know you – in whole or in part.
Now that winter recedes as the springtime encroaches
Envision a greening of sorcery’s art.
Lighten up, dark enchantress of icy approaches;
I hope and I pray global warming may start…
Does another bad sonnet addressed to her highness
Allow for a thaw to begin in her soul?
Get over your winter of taciturn shyness!
Or is frozen entombment your element, witch?
This old necrophile waits for a smile (or a twitch).
Hell, I’d marry your corpse – but mere friendship’s my goal.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
There is pain further than pain. There is a mechanical pain, a pain that hurts not hurting at all, making you go along life but missing something deep.
There is a beatless pain. There is a pain grabbing you by the throat. But silently, so you can't yell.
There is a pain not too big, it never fully seizes, but it is there.
Constant turning of the ***** that won't make you cry, but they do oppress. Obsess. Obsess. Obsess. They oppress like few things more. You cried in pain, and you discover now there are worst realities than pain: the cryless anguish, the wordless complaint, the oblivion of loss. Will you come out of this?
Most important of it all: who will come? Will you come out alive?
And the ghosts of the past, alive tonight
Me, looking at daddy's ***
Me, thinking I am a necrophile
Me, swooning over Gaspard Ulliel
Me, being free
Me, signing my death
Me, in your bed -happy like I had never been-
Me, lost in the dark convoluted corridors
Me, about to break in parts
Me, 14 in the car, daddy is telling me that if I go madder he'll get mad in turn
Me, going psychotic
Me, atonement by the flesh
And nothing could be worst than this
the past all over me
No way to flee...
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC