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Sharin' the
Necrotic Whirl of Poultry

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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.

Onto Ebb's Necrotic Chick Chunk Poetry

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Blessed by An Autopsy Angel

May your flesh be caressed with sterile dressing
after grip of the coroner's glove.
May she grow agar cultures from you
deftly cleaving the cranium I love.

May she divide your internal organs
into tissue samples in jars.
May she restore your corpse to me
with a minimum of scars.

After the grip of the coroner's glove,
my Venus still loves your Mars.

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Sonnet for Bramwell

Mostly when I sleep with you, it's in a coffin wide.
I dig up your grave. lift the lid and climb right in,
knowing your decomposing charms await me inside.
I inhale your corruption and nuzzle your blotted chin.
All day at work I'm longing to suck your mucking slime
Down in the cemetery dirt where I know it won't hurt
if I'm peckish and nibble the tip of your pecker sublime
as your fluorescent embalming fluids start to spurt.
Under a closed coffin lid, you give me a piece of your heart.
My toes grows mould like brie and shimmers in the dark.
Now that you're blue-green, Beloved, we will never be apart.
The look in your dangle-down-yer -cheek eye makes me bark. Graveyard gases swirl around me and leave me in a fog.
Howling in ecstasy, I sink into you like a banshee in a bog.

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Mindless In-Sole Mites

Frantic, I meander,
blundering where your feet are
when you're not playing
footsie with me.

? Do they stink
like dead crabs on the shore
returning to nature as
organic, chitaneous gore?

? Do they scream
in the bondage of thigh high boots,
encased in black leather
made from ultra-cool, S&M newts?

? Are your soles as mindless
as your tortured syntax,
your insipid muse
and your rhyme scheme so lax?

? Or is your love a pied
walking in double time to your heartbeats?
How many others to do you cyber
on your soiled internet sheets?

Often I meander unable to comprehend
wondering if it's your foot odour
or your ardour I smell
when you play footsie with me.

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Wight Spit

My nails in your back
slice you like a knife;
Your huge...brains
still sexy in the afterlife.

Your tainted grave clothes
of satin and lace,
your tomb,
our lascivious resting place.

A fitter caress,
a tongue, a lick,
tease my lips
with the taste of your prick.

Low gropes,
you don't need to stand.
Even in death
you're a randy man.

Rigor mortis,
your rod rigid from calcified lime.
Riding you now
leaves a passionate slime.

Bramwell, Beloved,
give me a kiss.
Droolin' your juices.
We'll be sharin' bliss

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Let's hear it for My Bram

Bramwell,
he don't smell sweet
corpses get that way
But he holds me,
moulds me,
scolds me
He's putrid
but I love him anyway.

And maybe he don't walk right
Since we ate his left leg
When he takes me to his bed
I don't mind he's mostly dead.

Let's hear it for my Bram
Twice the man with just one hand
Let's hear it for my Cadavaghan
He doesn't need to stand
Maybe his tool is blue
But he loves his Ebbie well
Let's hear it for my Bram

My honey may sleep by day
He's always oozing slime
But every time I go away
he writes me really risqué rhymes
So maybe he eats human flesh
'tis okay with me
'Cuz when gases make
his member swell
His dingdong rings my death knell

Let's hear it for my Bram
Twice the man with just one hand
Let's hear it for my Cadavaghan
He doesn't need to stand
Maybe his tool is blue
But he loves his Ebbie well
Let's hear it for my Bram

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Wight Spurt

A slave to love,
my incisors filed,
your body rotting
brings a smile.

I rut in sheets
no longer fresh,
Sullied by
your decomposing flesh.

Undulating torrents,
lustful excavation,
Droolin’ on your grave
with anticipation.

Sharin’ your sepulchre
for a cuddle and a grind
Nibblin’ your nose nub,
gnawing your behind.

I’ve dreamed of romping
in your coffin.
Now that I’m home,
let’s do it often.

Necro-erotic romance
we will not lack,
making funky monkey love
‘till the bats come back.

Hornier than a werewolf
at a full moon baying,
Orgasmic raptures
I’ve been delaying.

Dreaming your cadaver
once more I’ll ride.
My ideal man,
you’ve already died.

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Funk With Me

       I'd love to take you funking
         above the rafters of your tomb.
       Dragged out on rugged trusses
         where security lights don't loom.

       Cold rod in hand I lie you down
         stiff and chill in the dark of night.
       Kissing 'long your pale grey lips
         lie down take love 'till daylight.

       I love you when you're funky--
                        That death smell's out of sight!

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Click on the Haunted House to visit

My Beloved Bramwell's Crypt

Bramwell's Haunted Hideaway

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Ebb is Da Bomb!
Click on the TNT Chick
to Return to

Sharin' the Nude Whirl of Poultry

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Click on the Nose Picker
to Visit the
Thoughts of the Dazed

Lip Smackin' Good
Click on the Smacking Lips
to Visit the
Tracy McGimmesome Tribute Page

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Click on the Spaceship
to Visit the
Special Guest Poet Page

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Click on the Flighty Bats
to Visit
Bramwell's Crypt-Tickle Poesie Page

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Click on the Fluttering Unicorn
to Visit the
Night of the Living Dead Contest Winners

Cupid, one horny dude
Click on the Horny Cupid
to Visit
Ebb's Manic Romantic Whirl

Visit the Desert Flower than inspired this all
Click on the Fulsome Flower
to Visit the
Inspiration for this Page

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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.   

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