Laments of a Necrophiliac

You washer-spin my city
Round like a clock;
Love set me off to the races
And you blew the gun.

Hidden behind tinted sunglasses,
You maintain a cool secrecy—
You’d think I was a Communist!
How you hide and hate and judge me.

Your whip-cracking jokes
Snap me shattered, and sop the blood.
I know you tell me that
I am too fragile to be loved.

You have tried to kill me over and over
Yet I don’t seem to die. Nine lives gone:
The year of the cat is past.
I must be stronger than you think.

What goes on in your mind?
Shall I dissect it like a frog?
Dig my spoon in to find
My rotten heart, forgotten about.

They say that when you die,
All life courses out of your body
In a singular, gutting moment.
That’s when you feel most alive—

For a split second, and then it’s gone.
When it happened to you,
You emitted some odor
Of feline piss and polished pathos.

It really lit my fire;
Who knew I was a necrophiliac?
Your victim-complex trophy wife
Bed-ridden with Stockholm syndrome.

If I can’t have you alive,
I’ll love you while you’re dead.
Carry you around in a portable coffin
So you never leave me again.

Your corpse a plaything
When my mind is heavy with woe,
Collecting the bones of a ghost
Transparent to you as brick to me.

This is all a game
To see how long I can beat this horse bloody dead.
Did you honestly believe
That when you vanished into air

I wouldn’t breathe it in?

painting: “Wheel of Fortune,” Audrey Flack (1978)

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