by Nick Gisburne
The lust for zombie intercourse, the bliss
That septic surge dilating every pipe
Defiles us with a sick and seeping kiss
Diseased and damaged, warm and moist and ripe
The meat, the fat, a maggoty affair
Revealed as I undress my dying date
Contaminates our putrid underwear
We vomit, and begin to copulate
The two of us have no one else to blame
If every damp, degrading grind is slow
Her limbs, and most of mine, are twisted, lame
But still I feel a blistered bulge, below
Anticipating climax, from her cough
Instead, I find my flesh has fallen off
