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.