Sharin' the |
All the poetry on this page
is dedicated to my desiccated darling,
Bramwell, a corpus most delectable
My One True Love in This Life and the Next Sure, 'tis nothing unnatural about our Love. We are (most of) two people, we love Love, we love to be loved, we taste, see, smell, feel, chew, burp and hear Love, we visit Love in its condo by the sea, we take Love shopping at Eaton's, we've tobogganed Love down the slippery slope of the Citadel, Love has sat beside us at hockey games (though it's kind of embarrassing. You'd think such a gentle emotion would be well-behaved but Love tends to scream obscenities at the ref and linesman. Canadians are pretty gung-ho on hockey but Love's passion is louder still), we've taken Love to get a lapdance, we've even had Love dress up in a little French maid's costume from Frederick's (the costume was little, Love is large-sized), we've watched from the audience as Love belted out show-tunes (and nothing says Love like a musical). We've given Love a custom-made riding crop for Christmas. Bramwell and I have established the Love capital of the Love universe in our crypt for two because small minded, missionary position sexual conservatives refuse to believe that necrophiliacs and cannibals love just like you. We're not asking for special rights. We just want to be free to love same as anyone else (okay, Bramwell wants to be free to pursue an alternative diet as well but that's part of how he expresses his love). Love is on our side.
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Blessed by An Autopsy Angel May your flesh be caressed with sterile dressing After the grip of the coroner's glove, |
Sonnet for Bramwell Mostly when I sleep with you, it's in a coffin wide. |
Mindless In-Sole Mites Frantic, I meander, ? Do they stink ? Do they scream ? Are your soles as mindless ? Or is your love a pied Often I meander unable to comprehend |
Wight Spit My nails in your back Your tainted grave clothes A fitter caress, Low gropes, Rigor mortis, Bramwell, Beloved, |
Let's hear it for My Bram Bramwell, And maybe he don't walk right Let's hear it for my Bram My honey may sleep by day Let's hear it for my Bram |
Wight Spurt A slave to love, I rut in sheets Undulating torrents, Ive dreamed of romping Necro-erotic romance Hornier than a werewolf Dreaming your cadaver |
Funk With Me |
Click on the Haunted House to visit
My Beloved Bramwell's Crypt
All poems and cartoons are Copyright ©1999 by Ebb McFlow. All rights reserved. Launched in Cyberspace. These poems are here for your amusement, however no part of the poems, should be construed as an endorsement of florid, overwrought writing in any manner. You have permission from the author to laugh your ass off. Hell, as well as to parody the bejesus out of me. Having a sense of humour, I'll appreciate the gesture. |