The dead are always at it. Like to kill
and tear and eat. But even more than those
They like to fuck. The moment that you close
huge oven doors on them, be sure they will

be screwing as they burn. Each black charred bone
is wrapped around another, charcoaled tongue
thrust into burned lips. They can fuck so long
because they do not breathe. You hear them moan

out in the night. It’s not to terrify.
It’s not all about you. They make the beast
with two backs. Or with five. Say two at least.
And when they catch and eat you, as you die

the ones whose teeth you feel don’t lead the pack.
He’s busy with three dead blondes round the back.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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