Nosferatu Poem
he is my melanocholy
he is the creepy-crawly
that hides behind my American holly
I've never been 'suede by his demagogy
though his promised were never empty
he revives me
he tells me
he's only 15,706 days old, he sighs, one day we
will be the only lovers left alive
everyone else
will pretend to be skeletons or gelatin, he tells me
One day, it will be akin to suicide
to be the last gentle-man
he breathes against my thigh
he is my shame
his name
his cold frame
so much like the hunchback of Notre-dame
together we play the intimidation game
for there is something so feminine
in pretending to be alive
I was cognoscenti
appreciative even of the humanity
that creates beauty
in the useless
While he fed on them plenty
we often devolved a modius vivendi
in order to avoid war within our resentments
and even so,
he humiliates me
he is to me as overpopulation is to nature
he affects me like ultraviolet radiation
a leech,
a flirtation with devistation
he is to me a flickering migraine post cocaine addiction
and as i use him to gain friction
I realize my own contradiction
He found me
over and over
his personal narcotic
His grip on my hips my aphrotic psychotropic
His teeth feeling up my neck so close to my irregular heart beat
How erotic it is to pretend to be alive.
