I want the memories of me
to haunt you
like a regrettable Halloween costume.
I want to cut out eyeholes
from your bed sheet
and stand staring,
silently whispering:
this sheet still smells of you —
of you,
of you,
of you.
I want to emancipate you:
This queer lawyer-poet from Hell
conjured into court
waving an application for summary judgement
and a quick orgasm round the back, your honour.
I want you to place the tip of your cock on my tongue —
your flesh a communion tablet —
He died, He is risen, He will cum again.
I want to shackle you to my monogamy
like a failed heterosexual experiment
left unfinished on the slab —
I want the memories of me
to haunt you
in this dinky bed sheet
bursting through the ground with camp flair
like an undead Liberace and
all your ex-boyfriends stumbling back through the treeline
emerging once more from the fog:
“THEY’RE COMING TO GET YOU, BARBARA!”
I want the memories of me
to run deep inside you
to bleach your skeleton pink
to put a filter over your eyes that shows all my future replacements as only bones.
But in reality your memories have already been refurbished
and like Dr. Frankenstein selling his secret lab to a reputable pharmaceutical
I still cannot hold a candle to you it seems.
Not even the dead can tell you what to do.
Featured photo by Florian Lidin on Unsplash.
