Marriage Carried On in a Morgue

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Sometimes you feel that you are like corpse

A necrophiliac ignores.  He mounts

You more as if it were his duty, warps

The meaning of the universe.  He counts

His thrusts as if he’s hoping he can last

Just long enough to plunge his life in you

So after his one feeble little blast

He then can flop away and get some spew

Of snores.  You thought that you would feel the fire

Of mountains in Hawaii, but instead

You feel that you are sleeping sans desire.

The heat of you is like a fridge in bed.

  He doesn’t even want to kiss.  He wants

    To get it done.  His spurting insult haunts.

© Phillip Whidden