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"nilsen" poems
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.
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Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
j-walter-braman
On Hallowed Ground
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.
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