Day and night, each passion has its haunted
future, its mysterious bedsheets, cum
dripping down the walls. Passion, like acid
in the blood, hints at what could be. Welcome
ghost — urge I did not act upon — sleeping
inside me like one who died upon life’s
threshold, never wept for, smiled at, haunting
me with what might have been. The good housewife’s
low moan, the saint’s climax, the moonlit mile
where the nastiest of our spirits reigned.
Even while asleep, your perverted smile
tells me that you’re dreaming about the stained
knickers of the dead. What could be lewder
than our future, little ghost, my sister?