Apologia pro necrophilia

...
Yes of course, dear.
I say what is death, but an alley
through which none passes...
save the dusty sighs, blowing free,
free:
end to end…

{Reflect well if you take this for a novelty.}
peeling that well-worn maskon certain morns,
you too have noticedHow grotesquely death is
pinching your cheeks;
smiling ghastly
into those dead-fish eyes, glassy,
You saw but corpses, trailing weed-like.
On waveless, dreamless seas…
And on certain evenings, you watched
Your corpse on blind-date with oedipal time, shifting
From empty bedrooms to banquets,
Crowded with dead shadows.
Fleeting, and greeting;
noiselessly…yes,
you have sung your corpse lullabies too; haven’t you?
In the delirious indolence of those lonely summer-noons:
when that faraway call, melancholy, left you lost…
vacuous; in the trance of fading words…
your corpse tells tales too.
On certain late nights;
echoing the walled confines of that engraved dark:
the silence traversed only
by the clock’s somnambulating footfalls;
roundabouts;
in measured steps…
the other day you unearthed it;
{yes, of course dear, Your corpse}:
scurrying deep, and frantic,the autumnal shroud,
to touch the hidden warmth of red,
you came upholding it: dry memories;
crisp;in your pale, frozen hands…
Ah! {and I smile} now,
even now,
As you let the pen cough out deaths,
or pinch that shriveled heart,
and lovingly squeeze…
the blue vein
Into the sepulchral, spectral pall of the page;
One reads out to you who is left to you;
of you……
yes,

of course dear…