Peter Fruchter, Mon 3, Apr 1995.

In the graveyard,
at the witching hour,
the festivities commence.
Caskets creak
and, bashfully lids begin to flap.

Corpses smirk and flirt
enticing, hinting
- a glimpse or a whiff,
depending onthe functionality of
remaining sensory apparatus,
of yet wholesome flesh
selectively displayed -
and return via epileptic collapsings
to shallow graves
only to emerge
a clever repitition
- the very appendages previously displayed.

She, on the mausoleum stair,
reclines, poses, reposes.
His empty sockets are transfixed
and glitter with darkness; alight
upon her mouthings;
as if her remaining canines
were approaching headlights,
and he a small, fascinated mammal alice,
merely awaiting his end.

His entrails
such as remains
alight at her feet
coiling excited and contented,
determined and dedicated
there to implore
final consummation.

His ribonucleic acids
chain his passions
in broken helixes and strands
of hope of eternal commitment
or perhaps a dim recollection of procreation hunger.

And his mind,
whatever of it is left
supervening like dressing
on his neural salad,
intimates a dusty passion:
"I would die for her."

Peter Fruchter, Mon 3, Apr 1995.

Carolyn's Diary
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