Who makes love on coffin lids?
Cemetery scenester kids.
I went on the ghost tour and got more than I paid for.
The seedy, midnight populace of Glasgow's great Necropolis.
The prophylactic practises of solitary emo kids.
Slough the slipping snake-skins on the tombs of sleeping kings, observe the cider cans and lighter burns of volatile teenagers.
Several sweating spectres attest to the unrest of centuries-old sex pests given rise by trembling flesh.
These house-proud cleanly demons grow sick of sepulchral semen. The haunting was daunting at first, then worse.
Followed home by fetid forces, by disembodied sighs, down corridors of winking portraits with twinkles in their eyes.
Flattened like a spider against the wall of all desire. Breathless heavy breathing from hairy-palmed demons. The observers who unnerve us, the spectres that spectate, the bones below the surface strain to rise and procreate, these are the hazards of the hobby, the hazards of the plan, live your love-life in the graveyard, take your life into your hands.