Dwalin & Monche

Dwalin stood dwarven, deformed and grotesque,

Ever-bent by a hard, hamstrung hunch,

Driven mad by implacable lust for burlesque,

And a one-eyed, French flapper named Monche.

The myopic madam, not without her charms,

Bore a glass eye, white, rheumy and still,

That reflected light onto her pustuled arms,

Which she proudly would rupture at will.

“Money up front, mon amour, s’il vous plaît,”

Hissed her voice through a phlegm-laced veneer,

Smiling sweetly, her scabby tongue slithered its way

Into that which remained of his ear.

If their passion affected the business, although,

 The burlesque house was not apt to gauge,

For most just presumed it was part of the show,

As they generally fucked on the stage.


A Love Most Heady


Lifting the cover, he gazed at his lover,

His faint grin beginning to grow,

Heart all aflutter, and thrilled to discover

The feelings that burned in him so.


“How I love thee,” he said as he cradled her head

In his hands and stared deep in her eyes,

Then he placed it back into the box ‘neath his bed,

His beloved and most cherished prize.



As she put on his makeup and straightened his tie,

She felt breathy, and slightly light headed,

With a twinkle of mischief agleam in her eye,

Through his fingers, her own she then threaded.

Gently caressing his cold blueish skin,

Of formaldehyde, there were still traces.

She was tickled to find rigor mortis set in,

Staying stiffness in just the right places.

Mounting beds at the morgue proved a somewhat unglamorous

Grave, necromantic endeavor,

But, for the cadaverous, Alma was amorous.

Best summer internship ever.

Myron MacKenzie’s Meat

His powerful forearms were painted in red,

And his great cleaver danced with precision,

Observed the young girl from the foot of her bed,

As she ogled the graceful incision.

Her beating heart quickened whenever a chicken,

He carved up and cleft into sections.

Besmitten, her breathy heaves thickened. So stricken

Was she, with these carnal affections.

Each night she would spy, by the light of the moon,

On the good butcher, Myron MacKenzie.

Wowed by a cow disemboweled one June,

Went her hands down her panties in frenzy.

As she watched him smear blood ‘cross his apron of white,

On her pillow she nibbled and quivered.

When he ground Polish sausage, she climaxed outright,

And then had a kielbasa delivered.