fucking the dead

he said you're fucking
the dead, man he said that girl
is cold as ice now your days
have become as brittle as
her kisses now he said
quit fucking that dead
girl man it's sad and sick
and there isn't much left of
either of you. My blood, still
hot, my semen still potent,
I paused in the dark dark night
feeling around in the
underbrush for the memory
of her hot flesh. But he was
right man. I was fucking the
dead and soon I would be dead
too. That's where fucking
the dead leads you. Into
the ground, into the box.

Yet, there is the memory
of the act. Is it just a minor
vision on the road to damascus?
Or does it portend the way
out of this crazy dance?

All about the we of then
the noxious thrum of drum and stem
All about the mark of ink and harm
left cut upon the crispy flesh
All about the one who left
the dream that passed the song
that rhymed the rattling drum
heart loss heart loss the day
has come to fuck the dead
let's fuck the dead