So this was more or less a flash poem, with one break to look up the spelling of Caughnawaga. This isn’t the loveliest piece of writing, but I wanted to take the chance to start a poem with “For the blood is the life.” And no, Tim, I don’t think its a dumb line. This surly jerkoff persona might though.
Suck It (A Drunk Vampire’s Rebuttal)
For the blood is the life, or something dumb like that.
I know a fat ass named Emile who plans to celebrate
his 100th birthday with a small red velvet cake shaped
like the girl scouts that he dreams of feeding from.
He can tell you every actor ever been on Guiding Light.
He can tell you how an albino midget drummer tastes.
Fat like that, he couldn’t tell you what his dick looks like
but ask him what its like to drink with Groucho Marx.
He’ll tell. Bars are open late, but you won’t notice me there.
My look is that of someone drinks his beer alone.
Last year met a girl on Rue Bourbon with tits like paradise.
Turns out she was running dates inside an Airline Highway
motel room. Saline shoots into my mouth when canines
pierce her breast. Her business venture keeps me stocked
with perverts, tourists, laborers from Mexico. But maybe
you would like to hear about the girl I love or slayers
chasing me through graveyards with a wooden spike.
You wave a cross or garlic clove at me I’ll snap your neck,
and don’t get me started on this Twilight shit. Seattle has
too many hippies to attract a population. Too much rain.
If you deny we’re real because there aren’t reports
of bodies with two puncture wounds, then you deserve
the dark like me. It’s called decapitation. Hell. It’s called
people you don’t pay attention to. For instance, anyone
not in your living room. Hookers, sure. Homeless,
all the time. Runaways, you bet. Dealers and pushers,
if we get the drop on them before they pull their piece.
Not like any of them ever learn to shoot. Found a baby
in a dumpster once, not that you care. Happens more
than you think. Maybe wonder how I came to be like this.
Father was a trapper from the great north worked the fur.
Bought my mother from a tribe too busy fighting raids
to care what traumas were in store for their young girl.
Got her pregnant, worked her ragged, spit on her, raped
her nightly. That’s what sex is when you buy someone.
Raised me thinking women were all trash, but mother
let me suckle from her bruised bosom. Taught me better,
until the night he bashed her head like he did them beavers.
Didn’t even bury her. Let the critters scatter her. His name
was Delacroix. She was a Caughnawaga he called Heyyou.
What other goofy things that piss me off you want to hear?
True Blood? Emile likes it. Met that Anna Paquin. Shooting
up in Baton Rouge she stopped at a bar I like. Nice girl.
What else sucks? Anne Rice. Everybody knows her husband
wrote those books. And Lestat was a guy named Lester
used to chew on pigeons to survive; couldn’t kill a bag of chips.
I’m not likable. If I could walk into a pediatrics ward unscathed
I’d gulp your newborns like a drunk spring-breaker taking shots.
I’m not nearly old enough to know what Rome was like before
the fall, but if I was I’d be warning y’all. Stay thirsty, my friends.