Necrophilic Fad

In the tombs far from heaven,
My thoughts go unleavened
For the dead ones who dwell
Wide thoroughfares of hell.

Far from the palaces
Of golden etched chalices,
And stained glass saints
In torporus feints.

I will dig up a corpse,
By whim or by force
And make him my love,
Though his thing is a nub.

He will serve my design,
Be my own valentine,
Be my iconic mage;
Be the talk of the age.

I will channel the words
Of my dried demiurge,
And will crown him, complete
As my dead paraclete.