I have this thing - this funny thing - that most of you won’t know,

I visit places in the night where most of you won’t go.

People call me lunatic; kids will say I’m brave

for digging up a crooked corpse from its earthy grave.

Sometimes I’ll take a friend along but prefer to go alone,

I like the sensual privacy, to hear the coffin groan,

the smell of the unliving, the stench of rotten flesh,

the feeling in my trousers when our two bodies mesh.

Last week I scored a grandma who I’d seen get lowered in,

some teeth and dried up tongue remained under waxy, leather skin.

I prised the lid off her new coffin, her body like a drought,

nearly pulled her left leg off as I hauled the old @!*!& out.

Now resting on the dripping grass I slit her light blue gown,

then spread her stiffened legs apart while running fingers down

her rigid body, shrivelled breasts, sweaty pubic hair.

Her vacant eyes locked into mine – in death remains a stare.

The animal inside of me panted with frustration,

I wet my lips and melted cleg-nuts round her pussy-cum-crustacean.

The taste was near euphoria; salty, bloodied bliss,

I couldn’t wait to be inside her and grab her with my fist.

So trousers down and Y-fronts off, a fire in my eyes,

I slowly and quite carefully made the first incise.

It felt more like a cardbaord box; the hacking got intense,

my arm was aching, blood was caking, but the feeling was immense.

Pumping like a sex machine I cut away the sinews, ripped the stubborn flesh,

the ground around me suffused with her ins and outsides too,

I wallowed in her deathly goo and gnawed her organs - liver: blue.

She was a tasty toy to mutilate, a slippery one to penetrate.

One that made me salivate.

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