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My Necrophilia Addiction

I hear the horror intro on the radio,
an alarm hatching puss-filled moans of things
remembered. A clenching below forces veins open-
air escapes these aging lungs- desperate
for the warmth you promise under
the moon's romance, that beat

I crave. My nails dig, beating
my grave in the hard-core thrashing of the radio.
My arms rip though, letting yours crawl under
this body claimed by post-mortem. Spectral things
declaw, finally releasing me from the earth. A desperate
soul crashes, fluttering my stitched eyes open.

Baby, I will be your living dead-girl, opening
me to a whole new world of you. Your heartbeat
fills my chest as my lips close over yours, desperatly
forcing gasps in my chest as hips move to the radio.
Your hands trace boiling heat up and under
the rags I bare. You show me new tricks-n-things.

The smell of chicken blood and otherworldly voodoo things
lofts to my nostrils, frilling them to your lust, opening
the door to gor[e]gous need. Will you let me take you under?
The idea of this raises coagulated blood to grey cheeks. Beat
me harder against you, making the rhythm, match the radio.
This desire is making my new-found breath desperate.

Ignore splitting skin, the smell of rot and dust desperate
for the dark it spooled from. Your senses won't recognize things
like an arm missing and the bullet hole in my head. The radio
takes your mind off raw skin flaking, as I scratch open
your back. Only listen to this raspy beating
of broken vocals as we slowly rock under.

If I'll be your living dead-girl, will you be my under-
taker? Taking me over and over, desperate
for what's left of forbidden flesh. I'll be a persistant beating
in the hollow of your mind, forever a reminder of things
that go unsaid even in your journal. But I'll always open
my casket door, lulled by our song on the radio.

This "Living Dead Girl" beats in you. A thing
always there on the radio, a desperate
scream you can't keep under the covers. So keep it open.