The Never Late

i feverishly scour the funeral notices

hoping to line up a “date”

and not once have i ever been stood up

cause dead girls are never late

there’s no small talk no flowers

no out of pocket expenses

just gotta be able to hide in the dark

and quickly jump a couple of fences

i dug up one of your relos last week

and made sweet love to their festering shell

on a night alive with scents and odours

i savour only the cemetery smell

the mortuary odours that linger and mix

with the smell of decaying buried meat

i grab my pick and shovel from the car

like jasmine; the dead at night smell sweet

it’s just like having a wank with compost

they're so cold, so still, so dead

and if they haven’t sewn the mouth shut

you could probably score some head

be extra careful opening the coffin

stale formaldehyde can make you dizzy

ensure they’ve not been in the ground too long

as they tend to get a bit soft and squishy

there insides are filled with sawdust

they bend and comply with my deeds

the internal organs have all been removed

it's exactly what suits my needs

the dearly departed are now clearly abused

the late moon finds me dribbling and dazed

while the dead feign a posthumous pretence

i'm in my element; completely unfazed

right up my balls in your dead aunties rot

i time my thrusts cause i’m not done yet

rigor mortis has been and gone

but the older the colder; the harder i get

i jab and i joke as i prod and i poke

until the only thing left stiff is me

the deceased stare blankly forever

they can’t run, they can’t feel, they can’t see

stitches snap and rib cages crack

pus filled pockets of dead flesh explode

everything is noisy and silent all at once

i shake and i quiver as i unlet my load

the freshly dug dirt is very soon covered

a grotesque still life of spoof, guts and chunder

with fluids from both the living and the dead

an awesome and depraved wonder