A poem about a promise I made one night to someone special.
|Believe it or not the dead do talk and can walk.
Post mortem death-spasm, lung hacking cough.
I'm gonna raze like a fire-bird and burn on through.
I'm coming back from the grave- straight to you.
Taxidermized corpse smoking like a Newport,
Smoldering dead could make the next report.
Would you put out the fire from my altar pyre,
So I may service you anything your soul desires?
My eyes have been glued shut but that can be fixed,
Open them with a kiss from your ever chapped lips.
With your warm throbbing form and educated tongue,
Lead your servant with direction and make me come.
I am a loyal thrall his serpentine sodomite prince,
My undying allegiance, there will be no other since.
May I sit upon your lap my dearest bastard love?
We can grind our bones until our marrows are one.
Remember when you used to smoke menthols?
I would warn you about death every time I called.
Maybe that's a bad habit you should pick back up,
So that we could be the living dead- the both of us.