Of a naughty draught of air.
Her toes gliding woefully close to the floor,
Her grotesque Kali tongue licking the strands of her hair.
I hold her legs and hoist her up, daintily
Freeing her weight from that murderess, gravity.
As her muscles relax from postmortem stress
She lets loose some flatulence right in my face.
The gentle purr, a sign of life,
The inelegant smell of residual vitality
Leaves her in my gentle embrace
And I am almost swooned by this lovely disgrace.
I lay her down on a bare white sheet,
Massaging her limbs out of rigor mortis.
I am tempted by her protruding tongue, blue from strain,
To hold her, kiss her, lose my restraint.
I blacken her fingertips to record her prints
Forcibly holding each finger like a kid's.
She resists, in death, as if still around
Her face transfixed in a resolute frown.
I notice, up close, the hair in her nostril
Her moles, her folds, unguarded and still.
I pull back her pants with a jerk, as far back I wish
To reveal the growth of a flourishing bush.
Unthinking, unmindful, I pull down her undies,
And lick her thick, inglorious shrubberies.
If she were alive, she'd moan in ecstasy,
In death, she is far better at ease.
Later, at the morgue, I shave her legs, her ass, her face.
After stuffing her chest with a cotton duress.
I lick her wet and kiss her dry,
As I dress her before being burnt sky high.
Like a doll, she lets her saggy breasts,
Be reined in by my choice of vests,
I sew her mouth shut in a permanent smirk
Not before filling it to brim with my sweet cum.
Her skin heaves and falls at my tools' command.
I slip into her feet the highest heels in demand.
In her final dress, she looks elegant beyond belief,
I celebrate her dead beauty before it is defiled by grief.
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