Ectophile

I hear insane whales sing of death in dirges.
It reminds me of my ghostly urges.
It is fundamental
and some would say it's just wrong.
I love the ghost inside her
but not the body where it belongs.
She pretends to be an ordinary girl
as she falls       -up-       into my arms.

Were I to cut her into pieces
and boney little bits?
She would still be a haunt to me
and that's the size of it.

One taste of her heavenly form
is sweeter than black nymphetamine.
It burns me to glow
a sickly waxen sheen.
She makes the worst of my emotions
a part of our devotions.

You may believe
the world is full of hometown hotties
and every one divine.
But my little hottie
is ectoplasmicly
subslime.

Scalpel, scalpel shinning bright
first scalpel you see tonight.
Makes a grin ear to ear,
last whisper that you hear?
I love you dead       my dear.