The Watchman Blues (Grey Abscesses)

I buried her body beneath the West River so that the wake would dredge my dismembered trophy upon its exhibition shores a withered statue of a catalyst.
At her enthronement, they'll find her looking majestic, my death princess in a gown of plaster and plague redolence. Every incision from my switchblade cosmetics is its own lip-sticked dimple on her clay skin.

She'll have suitors in not only the maggot subjects that populate her kingdom but in the shamed spectators to her coronation, superimposing their guilt upon my scapegoat estate. Her milky eyes recoiled sardonically, her mouth a contorted sculpture of amusement.
And these stairway feet are searching for a girl long past expiration to be found and these anachronism lips are singing the watchman blues.
Saturday night burns lower than Hades; her Majesty is the confident arson. Like a winter in July, this dreamscape is drawn by a beauty born from caskets.

Her gala of rebirth as it rings on dead lips.
I said, I love you to ears without pulse, basking like diamonds in perfection.
(Traces of her voice slept as cadaver valentines on the dusk air.)