Wednesday, January 19, 2011

This isn’t a Poem that will Appear in the New Yorker

Like a tick on a branch waiting
for deer at a salt lick,
your parasitic kiss causes an
inflammatory disorder.

A rash followed by headaches.

Heart and nerve dysfunction spread.
I left it untreated and it bred.

My blood flows with Lyme disease.

Like a werewolf on the hunt
you prowl for an easy victim.
The transformation from innocence
to blood thirst happens when

Luna feels complete.

I was numbed by your tender gaze,
completely unaware of your wicked ways.

My blood howls at the moon.

Like a vampire with no reflection or soul,
you seduce the erotically paralyzed.
Days are dark when the sun is bright,
but the hunger will become too much.

Feeding on blood is best through the neck.

The spot that tickles when touched by lips.
The spot where decapitation works best.

My blood has been poisoned by fangs.

Like a spider spinning a web,
you quickly wrapped me up.
Spiraling under a light in an alley,
the venom feels like purgatory.

Claustrophobia soon takes hold in a cocoon.

The confinement of a thousand blankets
leaves your victims crippled and cold.

My blood has solidified.

Like the devil telling it like it is,
you got me to sell my soul.
Credit maxed out, left a pile of debt.
Nothing left to show, nothing left to do.

Mephistopheles materializes once again.

Bought and sold on a human stock market,
but the closing bell never rings.

My blood is no longer my own.


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