antifascist vampire love tale - a tediously long poem
(artwork by someone important)
THERE’S A REASON WHY FREYJA IS THE GODDESS OF LOVE AND WAR, AMONGST MANY OTHER THINGS.
ANTIFASCIST VAMPIRE LOVE TALE
her obnoxious canines – part I
I tied the vampire chick to the train tracks
She wouldn't stop following me smirking with those
obnoxious shiny canines
I forgot the laws of mythical science and she laughed
The ropes were tight around her pale ankles and
her crystal white wrists
the living corpse was smashed by the howling
derelict train transporting three accountants
to job interviews for positions that no longer existed
in the far deserts at the outskirts of sinking continents
I kept walking out through the plains and the winds and the train tracks
soon I realised her dismembered cadaver was reassembling itself and, crawling in a pile of
stale black vampire blood, the train conductor stopped shovelling the coals and, having
stopped, went to check the victim
Repelled, frightened, shocked and feeling guilty he
Approached the remains of the woman that dragged
Themselves onwards with her hand
Her red fingernails still perfect
She was weeping softly - and as soon as he got close,
I saw her from the distance, terrified, as her obnoxious canines dug into the conductor's
unsuspecting neck
and as the blood flowed into her horrifying corpse
and the conductor's remains replaced hers on the tracks
I saw her body recomposing and it was a beautiful sight
terrified I waited for her and when she was 10 meters away, she frowned like a sad child
and sat on her ass in the dust and started crying
I felt my heart breaking and went to her and put my hands around her and she made me
promise never to do that again and I apologised as a couple hawks started eating the
conductor's already-munched-on corpse a little bit farther away and the moonlight was
sweet because it made her skin look even smoother, as if a few seconds ago she was
unharmed and eternal just like now -
her tears dried up and she overpowered me and drove me into the ground and the fangs bit
my neck and the rest is merely history for the occultists that send me fan mail and I keep
throwing it away unless it's perfumed
my sense of smell has been intensified, you see
so I could smell the fact that we'd end up driving each-other crazy - it's been a couple
eternities since - I miss the daylight, but I can dig the nightlife - alas, she drives me crazy, but
I've been seeing her obnoxious canines and her disgruntled smile and the worried green
eyes and the blood-high thrusts of her perfect waist, the vampiric metabolism rendering her
body absolutely perfect, appearing perfectly still as if in a painting even when she is moving
every frame of her riding me in the industrial Monsanto-corrupted fields full of poison and
sick farmers - and then after the sex she likes to drink managers and CEOs and security
guards and sometimes police officers as they cohort, but she's always jealous and never
leaves any of the girls for me, although last month I drank the new lesbian CEO of some big
multinational after this big rainbow party - we turned the entire party but we just killed the
CEO -
eternal money and eternal life seem a little bit unfair, you should decide, shouldn't you, she
joked as her fangs drove into the piggybank, anyway, that's been my life in the past century
ever since that fateful day in 1907
I think this is a good time to live forever -
and there's no shortage of cunts to kill.
I learned to be discreet, to enjoy the shadows,
to treat the moonlight as a blessing every night
to hibernate like bears - who are never hostile
in the forests where we hide
our blood and heart pumps different,
the furry things sometimes don't recognize us as alive,
the wolves like to stare with a confusing melancholy
I don't know what they see that appears familiar
the ravens are passive and reflective, other birds
run away from us like we're scarecrows
we got married in a hut in 1945 -
I had just broken into Hitler's bunker
she fed on Eva Braun and I fed on Adolf
they begged for eternal life and we spit in their mouths
the Soviets broke in and caught the whole scene
it was
so embarrassing
like children caught eating too much candy
but we laughed and looking absolutely infernal with all that Nazi blood full of meth and
hatred swarming on our mouths we supersonically rushed out of the bunker and left the
cadavers for the soldiers to handle - the Russians turned around and a small Mongolian man
shouted after us - not knowing we were giggling, hiding in the bushes -
"Comrade Death, you've been kind to the scum -
We planned extensive torture, but I observe you've arrived faster - nobody will believe us,
so we'll disfigure their corpses and parade them through Berlin - come watch"
- that night we walked through the city streets and laughed and celebrated with the living as
they burned the monuments and swastikas and the banners and the Himmlers and the
Goebbels -
It was in that monumental moment
that I realised I loved this wretched corpse
which cursed me with eternal life.
It wasn't her symmetrical face and obnoxious canines, the green inquiring worried eyes, the
perfectly still smirk or the swaying of her pale waist - it wasn't even about her vampiric
nipples in my mouth -
she blessed me, unknowingly, gave me the opportunity to feast on the lowest of the low
feeling only pleasures and haunting this mortal plain as a ghost of the flesh -
I looked in her eyes and told her that I loved her
it was the first time since that early dusk in 1907
she had been pursuing me for a few months back then
that night, in Berlin was when I first called her Love
and I felt the crowds of Soviets and freed Jews and ex-prisoners of the regime breaking the
statues of Fuhrers and Assholes and Cunts and their collective roars seemed to be echoes of
hellfire laughs from the pits of the underworld - she embraced me in the fireworks of
antifascist victory and we kissed - and we didn't know
that in the shadows, the Mongolian watched one of his comrades rise a silver bullet from his
AK47 right to our heads - the dogmatic Marxist colleague thought that wiping the
supernatural is the only way to enforce Materialist thinking - we were a dialectical
dissonance - but the Mongolian, tense, sweating, pulled the barrel down, pushed the fellow
soldier into the ruins of the bombed building where they squinted, and, whilst they were
farther away, my hearing amplified his scream:
"Comrade Death - run!" - we ran into the direction of the shout and I dodged the confused
bullets from the other soldier's barrel - I dodged, angry, silver shrapnel hit my arm and left a
permanent, eternal mark - my teeth drove into the soldier who attacked - I cursed him with
eternal life and the thirst for blood - and as we prepared to leave, the Mongolian
approached and took out a necklace from underneath his war clothes and handed it to my
woman - it was a golden symbol that I couldn't comprehend, but it looked like the moon.
Dawn was coming soon, and I smiled. I was a little bit farther away, sitting on a pile of rubble
- and I watched them whispering to each-other. I was a little bit jealous - but allowed it to
proceed. She fed on him and then turned him. As his soldier friend came to, now undead
and perfect, eternal like a clockwork, having been forced to become what he hated, or
rather what he feared - he looked at us with blood on our mouths and the brown skin of his
Mongolian comrade had turned somehow black on the edges and his eyes now had
shadows around them -
his friend screamed but finally, crying softly, fled into the ruins, and with a final nod to us
the Mongol followed him -
she took my hand and we approached a hiding place -
"as long as there is darkness in this world, we can hide within it, as long as there is evil in
this world, through greater fury we can wash it in blood"
her poetry stood sweetly on the tip of her tongue and I kissed her again, and day came and
we watched through opacified windows - the daylight we would never feel on our skin again
15.04.2021
through pastures of plenty - part II
I understand I've been somewhat unclear
in my visual depictions of this mysterious vampiric broad
that has attached her spirit to mine forever
and thus, I decided to explain myself:
when dealing with burning, living, undead love - you're finding positives in negatives and negatives
in positives and type-0-negative tastes weird and you're distorting space-time and it becomes
awfully complicated - she is dead but loves rougher and better and stronger as a consequence - the
paradox at play is unmeasurable and sublime – it could be better shown if
my muse in question would be suggested and reinforced
in a more sublime way than the simple statement of
"her eyes green her hair blonde in 1907 then red in 1920 then black in the 30s and blonde again in
the 40s” - (don't laugh, it helped her pick up so-called aryan men who made great dinner and then
great flesh for dogs) etc.
my eternal permanent muse who has essentially kidnapped me, forever
and then set me free, sometime during this general experience of what we understand as forever –
so, the time elapsed during an eternity or a portion of this time until a hypothetical silver blade
would strike you in the heart etcetera but also in the case of a nuclear apocalypse –
in which maybe we'd survive the radiation but all the blood would be tainted so what is the point if
the dinosaurs selectively live when all the fauna is dead - the destruction of humanity remains linked
to the possible wipe-out of vampire-kind so then our fates are bound forever in parasitic symbiosis,
just like one class ruling over another
and vampires feasting on the ruling class when they're nice
on the lower classes when they're being cunts - like Thomas, did I ever tell you about Thomas?
he likes to pick up working men in bars and seduce them
never turns them into vampires at the end of the ride cause he keeps ranting to me saying that it's
"unsustainable", the motherfucker is stuck in some compulsive Malthusian psychosis, he thinks my
escapades with my woman where dozens of vampires were created has led to a scarce economy for
vampires - he doesn't understand that the Malthusian myth of too many vampires should imply the
Malthusian aspect of too many humans - yes, it’s more of us, but society has become more private
and anonymised just like everything has become more digital and widespread - we can hide in this
melting chaos of identity and fears and wars and money - we can fight any battles we want and
cheat the systems always - we can be The Blessed Irregular and on occasions our precious fangs
might even act as deus ex machina -
but all Thomas thinks about is blood, money, sex.
Blood.
Money.
Sex.
His creed, his religion, his world.
Sometimes I think about killing him when he talks that bullshit propaganda in that thick
youthful-yet-posh accent - in a world of assholes he kills the disenfranchised.
man loses his soul in production, where he is alienated from his creation - vampires don't lose their
souls, but it starts living outside of you, observing
like a spectral dog on a leash, or maybe a cat, it's always straying and always feels like it's trying to
escape you - but it comes back and back and back as you drink the blood and smile at the moon and
hibernate
– our soul is like a child’s kite on a hilltop –
What happened to my senses, you ask?
It was during the Great Depression -
the pastures of plenty laid bare and naked
fruits dropped, dead and ripe, unpicked
the migrants in their tents and vans
had no more water in their bodies to cry
starving in the darkening heat,
the country was sweating heavily
in shades of red, white and doom
we were starved - my mistress and I
we had agreed in 1907 during the peasant’s revolt
in the fields of old Romania
to never feast upon the poor
Thomas, who was third-wheeling along for weeks,
watched with sarcasm, looking fed -
he'd eaten every single homosexual in the state
or at-least he aspired to
by that point we were so weak we couldn't fight him
he had the decency to kill his prey in discretion
there was so much death and starvation the
fully bled-out corpses looked not much different than
the other dead migrants with their medieval diseases generated by the artificial scarcity
it was daylight, so my love and I were hiding in this wooden shack, a ray of sunlight was creeping in
through a hole in the wall and it burned so bad whenever it touched us,
the shack was so hot I felt as if I was a chicken, being roasted - I had not eaten chicken since 1907
and somehow, I felt like I could eat an entire one, no matter the inevitable digestive nightmare
it was then that I felt a shrieking feeling, a piercing through my nostrils, a powerful sensation of
unstoppable drive that came from the fields
somebody was bleeding and the blood was good
my nostrils contracted and my fangs sparked and I felt my ears move sharply arching like a wolfdog -
I suddenly heard, through the dormant pain and the heat - through the sun that entrapped me -
the whining tenor voice of someone I could not yet see:
"the poor cannot have wealth - with wealth they'd reproduce excessively as they do time and time
again, and then they'd be poor again - it's a lot of us on this Earth and the wealthy are thus the
chosen servants of god, expressions of-"
the obscenity - I have to stop it. he ranted for a while and my ears were incapable of stopping this
vomit-inducing eavesdropping.
She heard it too and I saw her face contract and through the haggard pale dehydrated veins her
throat uttered a groan, a horrible, terrible groan that stuck with me for weeks - I knew the plan then,
but we had no plan, at least nothing to speak of - but alas,
night like a gentle blanket of enlightening bliss extended its walls of cool plain wind
on the sorry shack that we crawled out of
we sprinted with the speed of automobiles not yet invented through the nightly breeze and at the
exact location of where the voice originated, we caught the smell and traced it
for miles we went across that Californian night
we heard banjos and laughter and crying
priests with no religion left preaching to the hordes of angry men, together yet alone in their pains,
wondering what sort of mistakes their ancestors must have done to warrant
such horrible misery
in the fates of the offspring
we heard the stale wind beat the home-made booze in tin cups
and the howls of children fighting over bread crumbs -
policemen strutting along and beating the shit out of anybody who muttered "we could eat the fat
man" - where, who, why, what is this fat man that they spoke of?
my nostrils contracted again
there was a sudden mist in the air
I realised in hindsight that it was only the rising dust
she grabbed my hand and dug her fingernails, unpainted, derelict, heart-breaking, into
my weak trembling skin
and pulled me through the sounds and the vibrations
the hums, the frequencies, the entrancing cricket noises, forever amplifying my hunger
"Private Propriety - No Passing Through"
a big fence.
A mansion in Venetian style - stellar in its perfect kitsch
lit by gentle lamps resembling the very sort I saw
on those handy little boats in that watering city
only space around, only fields, only rotting fruits
pastures of plenty, and around this fence of
abandoned, discarded, mocked prosperity
the bellies of hungry children like a tremor shook
I saw the traces of a fatter belly - I recognised his smell
we didn’t have much time left until the hunger would break us
but she found the time to touch my face ever so gently
I felt a single tear, and then another – a tender cohort on my cheeks
my slow dormant volcanic pulse beat a ghastly groove
and from here on out, it was all her.
I've been accused by some vampires
of letting my woman kill too many times
and oh, it's true, I do enjoy watching her kill
how do the kids say it?
used to hear it all the time in New Orleans -
ah, yes - it really got my mojo going,
watching her dig those obnoxious little canines
in the skin of scum
and so what? they should get with the times,
those who accuse me of
letting her do the hard labour
especially those macho types who were turned
sometime around 1300, usually Vatican priests -
there's still a couple left alive in endless vendettas
with the even fewer remaining ancient era vampires turned during those legendary benders of
Ancient Rome where the night opened up before you like a salivating nectarine
I know one who has been a monk twenty times,
He was a Buddhist fifteen, a Protestant preacher
during across different centuries -
what seems to be the consistency is that
he was always an obnoxious cunt
like Thomas.
"Why do you love her?", Thomas asked
Staring by my side lost in utter disappointment
Where did he come from – of course, he was already a guest here
The gentle flame of a couple of venetian street lamps
that this bourgeois turd installed
on his riverstone pavement
caressing my face and his in the soft yellowing orange half-light
as we spoke and watched
"For her innocence", I answered, as she dug her canines into the skin of the fatcat - the endless
space around the mansion on the plantation - the rotting fruits left unpicked because it was more
profitable, encompassing us all around like a legendary tomb of pointless decay -
oh, it was gruesome, his fat belly she bit into again and again, I think she was trying to write
something on his stomach with her teeth and she kept him alive throughout it - I rushed about and
massacred his wife and concubines - I could have spared a couple but decided against it - the
starving women in the fields yada yada moral excuse I was fucking hungry OK -
Thomas watched in horror as we killed his cute fat aristocrat who used to have such a cozy baby face
- and to imagine he wanted to turn this scum! ah, what a complete sucker for luxury - pun intended.
You see, there's a lot to this tale.
A lot more than her and I, even if she is,
All-in-all, a great chunk of my Everything.
I wish I would have killed Thomas then.
I did not, and he was worse than the dead ball of disfigured fat on the ground in front of us
in that new moon light
in the gentle breeze
I felt a kindness in me and I had blood in me
satiated, I felt no desire to kill and
less desire to kill a vampire
perhaps this is my biggest sin -
accepting the taboo of not killing one of our own
after consuming so many
for now, Thomas doesn't kill the poor anymore
or at-least not quite like he used to before
he lives on the top floor of a London skyscraper
a fifteen million penthouse in crystal-clear glass
Canary Wharf tower looming like Sauron
his blood comes delivered in tidy little packages
some serial killer cunts he employs on the dark net
they sometimes write little notes for him with hearts and smiley faces on the packages
he never shares and always tells us we should have invested the money we robbed from our victims
he is the same youthful arrogant Anglo
but his companies have turned into something
so much worse than a solitary bloodsucker
they've turned into machines of numbers and digits and death, dices of decay, sucking the very
revolt out of our most fragile bones -
Thomas started with cute gay peasant boys in 1880
but now he feeds upon the masses with an overpowering grasp, a fist of greed
During the hot summer days when my love hibernates but
is shaken to awake by some strange phantasm
she turns to me and takes my head in her palms and kisses me again and again like I am a child
and asks me with that perfect innocence, reserved only for me
"what is it, my moon, my lover, my sky?"
and I say it's nothing, and she jests -
"you think of other women, perhaps!"
I snicker and laugh and slowly fall back into the vampire sleep trance, but my head is still hurting
with fury sometimes, in that enraged sleep I dream, in my nightmare I scream
I drive that silver stake through his rotten black heart
and the thought scares me and thrills me
Is it wrong?
will somebody please tell me if it is wrong?
17.04.2021
PART III
The baroque mansion was taken up in flames
In the soundless field the ripened fruits gasped
Revitalised, I took my love’s hand –
We swarmed like vibrating poltergeists through the fields
We picked peaches, so many peaches
We raided the cellars, the basements, the vineyards
We threw packets of food and gold and jewellery
We screamed words of protest and we pointed
Proudly – in heathen resonance - endlessly projecting
Onwards and onwards through the spell-sky
The great migrant crowd heard our booming cry
They turned to the molten Venetian palace lonely
in that valley wind
that carried forth the smell and taste of fruit
of food, of fire, of toasted bread
And as we retreated back into the shadows –
The great crowd rushed forward into the mansions
The castles, the palaces, the stations, the buildings
Into the shadows –
- But then we heard the great dollar horde
A darkening cohort that would suffocate us all
The U.S. Army marched in – so many soldiers, so much blood
We rushed from tree to tree, hid in the plantations,
Brought weapons to the Okies –
One fateful night as we jumped as high as the projection of the moon
The priests whose religion was lost shed a tear and screamed aloud
Yet again, they had found God!
Oh, we laughed, of course,
As the warm-hearted devils inside of us shook gingerly
We would have been able to start a revolution –
If only the crowds had a few more like us –
But Thomas wouldn’t hear of it.
Thomas, you rotting pear, suffocating disaster
Cursed thorn in the skeleton of mankind
Thomas who just bought another penthouse in Hong Kong
He’s fuelling money to both sides
He thinks he’s Yojimbo or Clint Eastwood or something
Thomas who is a socialite, who has lovers now,
Who doesn’t kill with his hands,
Thomas the delicate the gentle the slender
Invited on television, speaking on the internet
Rot, rot, rot, rot, he needs to go
He needs to go
Silver nightmare spiking spear
Pick his life like one picks pear
Let me remove this unbalance
I prayed, I prayed, I prayed
The night was trembling
The blackness was living
My love held my waist, she was behind me,
She kissed my neck – she looked ahead
Through the reeds a whistling sound
A feline purr, a panther roar
A giant apparition
With skin of stone and a gargantuan, glorious waist
with mighty breasts of golden wind
crystal eyes remained unseen
hiding o’er the cloud-line, obscured,
oh, the godly secret of her being –
we made love at her feet
to mankind she remained unseen tonight
yet knowingly and unknowingly mankind worshiped Her
Wherever one gazed upon Beauty
Whenever one felt Wind
Whenever Darkness Gave Way to Sweet Dreams
Sweet Dreams
Sweet Dreams
She slowly faded back into a paling translucid light
My love held my head in her hands again and kissed me slowly
I beheld her endless green eyes
Her hair was golden too – the year, 1984
The Russian countryside was vast
Moscow was beautiful that night –
We snuck into Lenin’s mausoleum
And yes, we tried, it didn’t work of course, there’s no blood in him anymore,
He can’t be revived and frankly please don’t disturb his sleep
It was in Moscow that year that I caught a glimpse of something horrid
When my love was gone exploring on her own one night –
On the city street I saw a fleeting rushing light
It took me to a dead-end alley, I caught it all but couldn’t intervene –
Seconds away –
There stood Thomas, in the blood of a little boy and his mother
All gushing out all blackening the road
I heard the rattle of the militia and I had to jump across a building,
Caught myself on this balcony
Warped into the ceiling
I followed my love’s scent on the rooftops
I never forgot it
The beautiful blue eyes of the pale Russian woman
The innocent grey of the child
I closed my eyes and saw entities I couldn’t comprehend
So many voices, too many half-opened radio frequencies in my
detached
orbiting
spirit
in my pale consciousness
I looked like a child arched towards my kite
felt my projections and endless instances in the parallel construction
I had a temporary realisation – but I lost grasp of it,
I saw her hair in the streets and jumped to surprise her
I smiled but quickly my expression grew morbid
I remember her haunted and haunting shriek
Speaking what my eyes had seen
Howling, disgruntling, emanating fury
In the waxing Moscow moon
In the weeping springtime bloom
PART IV
cotton fields pale tights dancing skylight
out at dusk, slight burn from the dying sun
her hand pinned me down
manicure on my throat
she's wearing a black dress tight on her waist
there's a golden watch on her arm, bourgeois
ironical - and stolen from a fatcat
it echoes the reflective light of her moon medallion
gentle moans, transitory groan, blood-deep scratches
like a panther's paw digging into human skin
yet healing instantly in the emerging half-moon
saviour rhythm of death fiends fucking through eternity
permanence is all we crave
continuity is all we need
humanity has the technology to end aging
but the rich cunts don't give a fuck and if they did
they'd keep the secret to themselves
so, keep on drilling her in the cotton field
it’s alright - don’t think too much
a couple kids watching from the distance
I can smell them, fuck it - let them watch
I won't eat them, no darling, I won't
she smiles I catch the side of her mouth in a glance
I close my eyes with the image of her obnoxious canines
her perpetual fang
her cold body feels like a reptile,
the sweetest reptile
my own personal destroyer of worlds
my queen, my living goddess
my Jörmungandr-Spawn
Humming World-Serpent Blues
from the pits of Hades
the corridors of icy Hel
the tall burning levels
of Beelzebub’s underground mansion
in the suburbs of Inferno
or even in downtown Detroit
The psychoanalysts say that we have to
Fantasize about other experiences
when we're having an experience
Never quite There, Doing Just That - they say
We screwed in the Hollywood Hills once
I was thinking of that, yes, it's true
Somewhere in a mansion we broke into
It was empty, left abandoned
Sharon Tate's crib, I later found out
L.A. cops got there with their flashlights and guns
They were on edge, as you'd expect
The bullets slightly hurt but boy did we have our fill of them - we scattered the cadavers around the
Hollywood Sign in sensual poses - but there was a blonde pretty-boy cop - I let him live and turned
him - but stripped him of uniform, badge, gun - we tied him down in silver shackles and when he
woke up I gave him a deal to sign in his new infernal blood -
quit the beat and try being an actor again
he became a cop when he thought he was running
running out of that sweet, elusive Los Angeles time
but he's got all the time in the world now
to fail and win and fail and win again
a few days later he developed Stockholm Syndrome
Terry the ex-cop wouldn't leave, so
we exchanged addresses and phone numbers
he rushed out into the steers with his new papers
with a new name
in the land of lost faces
perpetual sundown
surfing tales like ancient myth
I told him to go for Clark, the name suited his face
on a beach Clark smoked his first joint with us
and with that I can answer your curiosity -
yes, we can get high - but it involves either drinking
the blood of hippies - which I don't really like doing
out of personal bias
or you can just consume a metric ton of that substance
until it does something to you
thankfully Clark had the key to the evidence vault
oh boy that was a fun summer later in Mexico
PART V
one quiet morning at 5 AM close to bedtime
sitting in this dark marble room, it was cool and damp and quiet, and there was the moon leaking
inside
something surreal about the sound of that bird
singing amplified onwards like through
different instances of the same giant cave
in an endless feedback reverb loop
the bird sounded as if it were a giant bird
same shape and form of a small blackbird
but immense, gargantuan
at the centre of the forest
inside of it the soul of someone who last lived in
the middle ages and who saw so much blood
she cast herself into the shape of a bird
forever to sing, oblivious to the great chaos,
perfectly ordered and aligned in her slumber
this is how the tiny bird's song sounded in my ear
I turned back to the ascetic bed
In this hide-out on the Mexican beach
Looking like an ancient tower
I turned back from the window and fell, inanimate, upon her body
and caressed and held her and fell into the hibernating ooze of lunar dreams
19.04.2021
black velvet – part VI
rewinding shadow of her breast
galloping squirming of the bed
black velvet hotel curtains pulled
over rosy windows gasping for air
her names always started with S
Sylvia in the Parisian night (she liked Plath)
Saima in the Scottish breeze
Serenade in the Woodstock tent
Sânziana before she met me
In that fateful haunting dusk
Forgotten Romanian railways
Tracks through which now flowers grow
Metal around which roots twist
Cradling mankind like warm serpent scales
rewinding shadow of her pale all-encompassing breasts
cradle me like a babe cradle me like a babe cradle me
like blood cradles revolution
like snow is always the conclusion
like the dances of the rain
like sweet whiplash gentle pain
black ghostly blood dissolving into thin air
quick healing skin – “all smooth all fair”,
the trance-like curving of your whisper
gravestone of thoughts that aren’t of you
as we fuck our souls are watching
(somewhere far away)
a ray of sunlight through the
black velvet windows gasping for air
sunlight like a serpent of death
threatening always, always close
beautiful daylight unreachable
behind black velvet curtains
besmirched by the pink of the window glass
reduced, tamed so that if it does touch
your skin fair or mine
it’ll burn less
as we fuck our souls are watching
I rewind the trembling of your bosom
all around my head – dead or not
I still need oxygen
- or not, I suppose
Suffocating All-engulfing Absolute
Lust Lust Lust Desire Love
sunlight like a serpent crawled
through a half-opened pink window
in comes the sound of the human day
engine buzzes from the dogs
howling from the cars
the heat, the heat, the unstoppable heat
of the Arabian day
at night we dodged the bullets
corrupted power of imperial decline
the desert welcomed you as it welcomed me
you jumped so high from that dune
sand was launched in all directions including my eyes
I laughed and it burnt
you launched yourself into the sky like some ancient hero
I was afraid you’d catch onto a cloud and never come back down
I sought you through the black horizon
I couldn’t see the moon but then I saw you
our souls watched intertwined like children’s kites
rewinding shadow of your breast
as you ride me on the desert dune
21.04.2021
white light - part VII
I had a dream once
I was alone on an alien planet
I stepped outside of a small wooden house into
a beautiful garden with emerald grass and pink flowers
but there were no warm shades in this light
the sky echoed with a booming overpowering white light
this white light was endless and eternal
you couldn’t see the clouds and the sun was a white ball in this white sky
it felt like the very world had its very rays filtered by white silk
every now and then I almost caught, through the branches of the trees,
that fatigued, elusive blue tint that echoed underneath the filter
but the blue shade of the past was lost in this alien hue
I was first content with my aloneness
I heard a few birds singing in reverb
delayed out-of-focus moans of cats and strange interstellar fauna
I closed my eyes and suddenly, as I opened them,
I was overwhelmed and terrified by my solitude
the discoloured pure ball of fire that was the sun
turned suspiciously black into painful contrast
this black ball of magma in the sky pulsated through the vein on my forehead
as it washed my skin with a pale glow
I realised that on this planet, the sunlight did not burn
I was filled with happiness but I felt like I needed to share this happiness
otherwise, what was the point?
It was then that the sun turned from black to bright yellow and my skin started burning
I screamed in agony and shock, the transition so sudden, the danger so real
I thought that was my end –
but then it all morphed again and the sun turned red
dark red was the moan of the skyline
as from the clouds slowly converging from thin air
a warm rain of blood fell on my skin
as the breeze and delicate blood rain turned into
a sanguine tropical downpour
two bright black thunderbolts heralded the
descend of my goddess
who blessed me with eternal life
who cursed me with eternal pain
my love slowly descended from the sky
like a strange hybrid
between a Voodoo spirit
a Shinto god
and a Jotun
I woke up from the dream gasping
woke up entranced and thus already sleeping
being slowly ridden by my love
who thought I was having a nightmare
“go back to sleep, my little babe,
It’s still day, go back to sleep,
the moon will come soon,
and right now, so will you…”
27.04.2021
ending - part VIII
(author’s note: I do not really understand the number eight.)
the tiny black kitten used its shiny green eyes
tracking the elusive smoke ring
travelling towards the ceiling with a puff
"don't go, he'll be prepared", she said, worried
I never saw her before - not truly
not trembling like this
the moon was up, the world had begun
the wind caused ripples on the lonely Thames
as waves sunk into the side of the boat
the repetitive sound hypnotic, entrancing, decaying
I watched her manicure on her pale glorious hand
red and shining like a glowing power button
against the dim interior of the hull
her fingernails like a master-switch
telling me to love, ending all worries
but the times had made me depressed
the hatred and the fear and the anger
broke me into burning coals
outside, the equivalent of a parking lot of boats
around us very old mighty trees
the Thames in Hampton Wick, next to the market
midrange pleasure boats, a few houseboats,
darkness and no street lightning
no neighbours but the ravens
the gulls, the sleeping swans,
an otter which escaped from someone's household
shrieking pleasantly in the cold water
"it used to be a glorified trash compactor
a long time ago, a very long time ago
barely a couple hundred years since the Romans,
way before I met you, way before you were born, y'know"
"te iubesc, să știi"
She was startled. I hadn't spoken Romanian since the last war.
The moon was high enough now. Soon, the phone would call -
Nokia ringtone, perpetual echo in the hull, an anachronism.
I watched her breasts raising and lowering
I kissed her and she said it back. I felt the life.
Never-ending life in her living corpse.
My paradox. My living goddess. My closest friend.
Only relief.
*
Canary Wharf. 2022. It's been years of a horrible pandemic and now they broke out another war - thankfully, vampires are immune. but not to both
and they are not immune to tainted blood -
It's been hard finding good blood.
It's been fucked up, to tell the truth.
Thomas has made a billion in the pandemic.
He has a new contract with Amazon.
His blood is always fresh.
Fresh little baby blood. Smart, healthy blood. Ethically outsourced blood.
I shit on the corpse of his grandmother for having not foreseen the atrocities caused by the butterfly effect of giving birth to a mother which would in return give birth to this malignant corrupted son -
Thomas was a vampire before he was turned.
In the truest sense, in the Marxist sense - not in the sheer bloodsucking sense but in the sense of leeching the life of society itself, the very process of creation - production - the material soul of man - his hostage.
*
"Comrade Death!" the shout and the rubble in Berlin, a flash - followed by the smirking canines of a man in Wehrmacht uniform.
Suddenly the same man, in British garb - he drank the Germans and the Russians,
he drank the Japanese and the British,
there's a sea of death waiting for him
for little boy Tommy as he goes down the plastic slide
of his childish centuries of murder
*
There's a fox in Richmond. It has stopped by a shaken carriage - robbed possibly, wrecked.
The horses are gone, the vehicle is dead.
I watch the fox. Fox watched back.
I followed it into the park.
It was always one step ahead of me into the night.
*
I always thought that maybe Elon Musk would kill him
trying to harvest vampire genes for space exploration or something
but the billionaires never suspected Thomas
his behaviour was acceptable and normal at its surface level
for anybody whose hordes of money gave birth to more hordes of money,
he was just another guy living in the monster's eye
*
There was a blinking red light on top of his apartment
I walked, not feeling the cold breeze in my ancient suit
towards the enclave of Canary Wharf, golden city-state, Vatican of Excess
in the church-like shadow of the JP Morgan building
the Death Star underground station
through the memories of endings
how many had I killed?
and the idea that this act would mean more than that
the act of ending immortality as more heinous than
the act of killing mortals -
what a stupid, disgusting idea
not even the gods are eternal
we all die
we all crumble
we all vaporise into vivid ash
the cosmos has played its card and for a while
the ashes turn to flesh again and form into new eyes
those new eyes in turn cry and judge and squint
for millennia - until they wither with the myopia of the divine
and blood, and birth, and blood, and birth
we vampires are nothing more than a reflection
and Thomas has reflected the worst
I fear, nonetheless, that we've been manifested
not by godly demand or evolution but by human lust
was the myth the first? or the fetish?
*
My consort turned Lucrezia Borgia in 1501 at a house-party
She now sells luxury underwear and high-heel
leather and latex and whips
I saw her a couple of years ago holding a leash around a man's neck
He looked very content to provide
a little bit of blood
each month
He was not her meal; he was her snack -
never turned, but never allowed to die
Eternally co-dependent on that pretty bloodsucking hound.
Large brown eyes and soft pale breasts on her leather-clad outfit hiding the past.
*
CCTV in the Underground
Humming, drifting, wailing trains
CCTV catching my shadowless trace
in the corner of their lens
*
What was this nostalgia? This fast-paced montage of memories?
I washed my face in cold water at a little public toilet.
Very cozy and high-class on account of the neighbourhood. Even provided skin cream.
The others stalked the tower.
Hoodies, tuxedo's, casual wear, black camo,
all black, all dark, all End
"Apocalypse Now" whispered a film director
none other than Méliès
who was a big fan of Coppola
"Comrade Death".
A whimper from the right.
A long beard and patient eyes.
Someone turned at old age. I gasped.
It had been so long since Berlin
He smiled, mirroring my thoughts.
"Let's go drain the blood of Capital"
ironical and somewhat preterite, wistful, wise
despite him being younger than me, he appeared older, and that was enough to propel the illusion,
I would have called him grandfather
for I have never met mine
*
walkie talkie static
security guards dropping to the floor
none drained but the one with the swastika tattoo.
quiet elegant sleep arrows
a chunky bulky sexy rowdy smooth sailing viking
dressed in a large suit, over two meters tall,
full of tattoos I couldn't see but remembered from a party in 1790 where we stole all alcohol in the propriety of the church of Iceland and returned it exactly three days after with runes all over it and full of psychedelic compounds they'd not discover for a century and oh boy did it break their brains as some saw it as devil brew and instantly cast it aside but others just shrugged and did the holy rites and got shitfaced and felt massive historical anxiety for the consequences of conversion and some became syncretic and dude it was absolutely hilarious but I digress - this viking fellow , big and tall, massive -
moved like a rat disconnecting alarm systems from
the little app he had programmed himself on a
Blackberry in 2004
*
finally, the last room in his tower, of course
at the end of a comically oversized corridor
featuring paintings of really vanilla vampires
like Vlad Țepeș who by the way has been living
in exile for a while now going to therapy because he
couldn't stop trying to kill Attaturk
and he never liked Thomas either
but what am I doing?
am I trying to find more reasons?
enough.
stop thinking, close your eyes, find the sacred
the holiness in this murder will warm my icebox heart
it will release
the gasping souls of children
whose old age he stole
*
I could hear the soft vinyl squeeze of Como's Dreamer's Holiday, on the most expensive speakers
this hemisphere has ever seen -
he scrambled his stars and he sipped top grade blood
the blood of virgins who never dropped ecstasy in clubs
if we'd have regular heartbeats, they'd be beating fast now -
we're the vampires and the vampire hunters now
we're the, oh fuck no, we're the replicants
we're ying-and-yang
here it comes -
he is loafing on a velour couch
red velvet curtains ripped out of Twin Peaks
except he never got past season two
Thomas looks right into the silencer of my gun
and past it, into my eyes -
and it takes him a few milliseconds in deep slowdown
everything in my eye rewinding
a musical drone of anger, followed by amusement -
his face went from serene and insectoid to
pink and abash, rage at such vulgar betrayal -
his eyes are what I imagine Himmler's looked like up close - I heard they had been pals.
*
and then a booming laugh, too low for his voice
almost as if his orbiting spirit was laughing
in despair for what might follow? or maybe
maybe his spirit had ascended long ago -
maybe all of this time we've been fighting a body
and nothing else.
maybe he was thinking this?
Grandfather stuck his silver spear slowly , right into one of his ribs - and steaming flesh overtook the smoke detectors.
Thomas laughed and screamed and the sounds morphed as his perfect hair got soaked, and as it rained in the Wharf penthouse that perhaps a few African countries could afford if they'd pool their GDP - parts of his body were now starting to age, but at an unforeseen, unsynchronized pace -
his face remained perfect, his hair perfect, I hated him for it -
but the small death was turning into the big death now, and he gestured, with a skeletal manicured finger -
for his voice had aged without his face -
"tell me, friend - wouldn't it have been boring
all of this time - without me?"
I shot my silver bullet into his skull
aparențele înșală
and his youth was now all gone
and even the skeleton was melting into silvery ash.
*
Grandfather looked into my eyes. Others sat down.
Somebody was collecting the ashes, lest they get washed away by the smoke alarms.
Private police would be up soon.
"Comrade Death, he will diffuse into pure black ether
his spirit will replay his demise again and again."
"Yes, Grandfather. In pure arrogance, for all eternity."
"You seem displeased. Great evil was quite literally washed away tonight, youthful one."
"Yes, for his spirit will replay his demise again and again, in pure arrogance, in self-centred obsession - and he will be content."
The Citibank sign moaned in sterile neon from across the street, crescent and lunar.
The JPMorgan tower and the stock market prices glittered, and I thought
I could see something in their light.
for a second, it felt like I was sitting in a duplicate of a duplicate.
for a second it seemed like it was raining outside, not inside.
it was London - it was raining both ways.
what is death?
22.01.2023
