, , , , , , , ,

She was dead and encased her exquisite

curves in the sort of sequin disco-flares


called posh before I was born. Her velvet

tube top bled. Her long cadaverous hair


couldn’t hide the hole where the girder

had punched clear through. “Let’s do lascivious


things,” she’d said, rising. It’s hard. We linger,

hoping for love. The living see darkness


in sex and quail. The dead are beyond doubt

now that it’s too late. Randy ghost of ghastly


flares, you have spawned unease. If lusting for

dead things is freakish then let me freakout,


old-school style, with kisses, with sodomy.

Fuck’s crux. Putting the core back in hardcore.