He won’t need to open the door, the myth of smoke
will come in through the keyhole. The willing victim
will not feel your presence; smothered in your black cloak
she will become like you, invisible in the night.
I’ll know when I imbibe your heat, roast in my flush,
gaze at the fading impressions you leave on my flesh;
you’re immodest, you mesmerize, your fangs
suck the venom—Death; you’re called
the Undead, that means you have life.
Seal
the missing link while her neck is arched;
take what you miss: the silk and surrender of your Gothic age,
tonight she’ll play dead, tonight rise from your grave,
she knows you the way you know the taste of blood.
She knows
you won’t hide your claws,
the unclenching clenching fists,
mock your chivalry, feign your desire,
shield your bloodshot eyes, humble your bursting brain
that saw and stored the wisdom of centuries.
Leave
the dark alleys the howling the crawling on walls;
stand straight on earth, a heretic from hell; proclaim
blood as your life-force and that you’ll kill but not stumble
upon my worth
in freshly shed blood on white ceremonial sheets; you’re a beast
with dignity, you must know
veins burst beneath the skin at the throat
for your nocturnal tattoo
to change me in my sleep;
Come,
quote your price:
how many bowls of blood
for eternity?
Till trapped in your kiss
my soul is set free.
