Night Of The Loving Dead

“It’s over” she croaked, choking back sallow tears,

To her lover, aquiver with dread,

“Your perversions have worsened, affirming my fears,

I’ll enable you no further, Ned.”

Brushing her cheek with his clammy, grey hands,

Gently stroking her dull, thinning hair,

Which promptly fell out into wet, moldered strands,

As his eyes met her cold, lifeless stare.

“Since last spring, when I killed you, increasingly clear

Has the answer become, sweet Amelia,

For, now that I, too, am dead, technically, dear,

It appears we’ve cured my necrophilia.”

When they kissed, his thin lips fell off into her teeth,

And her jawbone dislodged from her head,

But ’twas plain as the maggots a-wriggling beneath,

Long their love would live on — though undead.



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.