Poem. Arthur Coleman


Sick and tired of sucking blood from hearts as they pound
slowly down to a halt, the vampire retired himself in a tomb
overlaid with miserable images of Christ in agony and weeping
cherubim to lie appalled by the gruesome hallucinations
seen by undead fiends deprived of sustenance: hell
the black hole spreading out in waves, thunderous and colorless,
from an imperturbable center; the shiny luster of the devil’s eye.
Visited by recollections of numberless encounters, methods of
seduction
that led unfailingly to his tongue, now dusty with disuse, lapping
about
in hot sanguine baths as his throat convulsed to the rhythm of the
pulse
of his prey, quickened by the panic that settles in after the violent
thrashing subsides and the vampire glimpses through wide dilated eyes
what all mortals are to be seized by and look on unendingly.

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