Tuesday, February 4, 2014


Your ghost appears to me in the night
and beckons, flickering like 
a ribbon of flame, begging me to fuck it
...and I do, as much as one can fuck
a non-corporeal being, in other words
with some difficulty. You keep slipping 
from my grip like a wisp of smoke. Your flesh, 
what I can feel of it, is not warm but cold. 
It’s like humping a pile of soft, powdery snow 
that melts the instant you touch it.
Part of me is destroyed every time
I engage in this spectral intercourse,
I don’t mean in the sense of
“la petit mort” as the French 
so charmingly put it, even if that 
milky spirit that flies from within me
does resemble a specter. Every time 
I awaken from one of these wet nightmares
I find my soul slightly shriveled,
there is a little less of me left
-the candle's diminishing wick-
until the day when I am merely a stub
of my former self, unable to engage
in any further bouts of necrophilia,
and there’s nothing more I can do
but wait for the day when I finally have 
as little substance as you,
when we are just two phantoms
inseparable from one another
or the ether we fumble together in

Your ghost appears to me in the night
...and here I feel compelled to confess
that you are not here of your own accord.
I am the one who summons you here,
I am the one who interrupts your evening 
with my erotic séance. I’m the one who forces you 
to haunt me, I’m the one who will not let you rest
I'm the one who refuses to let go
who is driven night after night
to punish us both.

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