Sunday, 11 November 2012

A poem about Vampires from my book 'Forty Two for The Chosen Few', foreword by actor Brad Pitt and Tom Rapp





A Thirst Never Quenched (Ode to the last vampires)

In the last days our eyes heavy and craving linger over the shallow sewage that spikes the drain and pain of the nation. Our lot was sown with the plagues that rained Egypt, our dreams banished and caste adrift to the jagged shore of the Baltic, to the haggard folklore of the demonic.

Seven months we were tossed from wave to wave, seven curses were laid to hand and still our ship could see no land. Our skin parched with salt we hid from the sun like heathens on the run, these were the days of fertility when dirge and fang grew infinity. 

For some it was a legend that grew out of a castle where Islam lay impaled, the folly and quest of the Holy Grail, yet here we are, thrown from ship to shore, like a beggars whore clawing the deck in our bloody gore. Only six of us left, weak and unfed, for each other we bled, no word was said.

At last our boat found solid ground, a land too remote to be found
Dark forests shadowed the beaches where sullen witches waited to meet us. Into the hallowed gallows of Poland we entered, by moon speed we relented, for our fangs we vented  

Five thousand moons have passed our way and still the wolf doth bay as we prey on the flesh of another day. With the last remaining few we feed on the residue and hope to breathe the night dew.

Even today we hunt by the light of the moth, by the slight of the cloth, but no eye sees us. We are the flicker in flame of serial killers blame, a legend too ghastly and a tale too vastly  



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