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POEM: Empathy for the Vampyre

A poem for Hallowe'en.


Your native earth and coffin smelling a little more each

year. Tediums of rats and wolves. Guano. Cobwebs.



An unreflecting life is not worth living? What others can’t

see is the glass whisper.


Incisors of course. Lust. But joy? Those graceful necks

and veins of the living become lodes drained of rubies

even for a sucker.


Constant scurrying before light and cross-bearers attend.

Spiritual fascists can’t see the road for the potholes and

cross winds to your castle — you hope.


Do you spit on the ruins?


Do you file your nails?


Do you shit on the run?


What else soothes?


No one (not even the night) has seen your human toes.


Darkness the shape of yourself, climb in.


The Edge Is Free To Read.

But Not To Produce.

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The Edge Is Free To Read.

But Not To Produce.