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Don’t touch me, you bad egg. Don’t make me feel
you kiss me here and there. Don’t stare at me

with that hungry dead stare. Don’t make me kneel
to please you. Don’t make me need you like whiskey

and raw peyote. Don’t tell me that you
are still alive. Still living. My dead thing,

daze me. I’m the the Anointed One. You knew
that when I pulled you from the moist, aching

soil. As lovers say, some assembly
is required. Dust in silence. The Dead

know that its, “once more, with tension.” Stones rain
down on us – grave dust fills us – and deathly

is as deathly does. Call it a strap-on,
shocking you, rupturing your last membrane.