After you swallowed you told me to wipe
my cock in your spectral hair. A spirit
bound to the swamp, you’re both pungent and ripe,
horny and dead. It’s queer how your corset
and silk bloomers can still slide right off. Queer
how I can skull-fuck your throat, that somehow
all which splatters on your neck and brassiere
might have brought forth life once, but never now.
“I long for love’s wet heat,” your tombstone read.
“Debauch me quick, spirit sweet.” The whole, ‘weak
flesh, weak soul’, is bullshit, you said. Pious
get pissed that sex doesn’t stop once you’re dead.
Nothing stops. You grind your swamp on my face;
tree of your lust shaking, your cunt’s red cypress.