Drak
In his lair high in the hills
Drak stirs himself and sighs.
His breath is hot and venomous,
there's hunger in his eyes.
Raising up his mighty head
he shakes and stretches out,
front legs, back legs, body,
from his tail up to his snout.
Time, he thinks, to take some food,
a cow perhaps, or horse.
This won't last him very long,
it's just a snack of course.
As he emerges from the cave
the sun shines down upon
his bright bluegreen metallic scales,
then, in a flash, he's gone.
Glancing over fields below
his keen long ranging sight
had seen a herd of cattle,
and he instantly took flight.
Down he plummets, down and down
until the cows are near.
His breath is hot upon them
and they scatter now in fear.
He picks one out and chases it,
his breath a scorching blast,
with one almighty snap! the cow
expires and breathes its last.
But Drak is not yet satisfied,
his hunger not assuaged.
He fixes one more in his glance,
the distance keenly gauged.
Once more the awesome jaws descend,
the dreadful teeth unite.
Another cow is swallowed up
with one enormous bite.
With dripping jaws he savours it,
this taste is one he likes,
then to his lair he goes til next
he wakes and hunger strikes.
© 2004
Adragora
Andragora, ancient one,
eyes afire and breathing flame,
scintillating scarlet scales gleam
and glisten.
Listen, listen!
Hear the sound of mighty wings,
batlike wings, beating
beating
beating, like a big bass drum.
Galleon of the starry skies
sailing high above a city
pretty from a distance.
Outlined on a milky moon,
magical, mysterious,
now just a silhouette
and soon to be a memory,
awesome legendary creature,
straight from my dreams.
© 2004
Chung Tao
Chung Tao sits coiled
drowsily dreaming 'neath a willow
beside a rippling river.
His golden scales
shine and shimmer, glimmer
in the morning light.
Sights of emperors past and present,
palaces and precious pearls
mingle in his mind.
After a while he wakens.
Becoming aware he rises.
The mighty horned head turns
as glittering eyes eagerly
watch the flickering
fins of many fish.
Rousing himself, he plunges
into cold refreshing waters,
lunges, open mouthed.
Success! He bites, and savours
the fresh piscine flavours
flooding from his catch.
Centuries of experience
count for much it seems,
compensate for ancient bones.
A quick flick of his tail
brings him back onto the bank
to resume his reverie.
© 2004
Monday 29 April 2013
Words, Words, Words
By Any Other Name
They christen him John then they call him Jack!
Can anyone tell me why?
And boys named Charles are Charlie or Chuck!
It's enough to make you cry.
Frances was Fanny, years ago;
now don't you think that's sad?
Women named Maureen are still called Mo
but I guess that's not so bad.
I understand Michael being Mick,
it's simply quicker to say,
but then you get Richard becoming Dick
in a most illogical way.
Dorothy once became Dolly or Dot;
Cecilia was Cissie, poor soul.
Minnie was Minerva sometimes, or not,
and Ellen took Nellie; how droll!
William is nice and sounds better than Bill;
Edward is shortened to Ted.
Henry is Harry but also Hal;
more creative than Frederick's Fred.
Molly was Mary and Jenny was Jane,
Ann became Nancy or Nan;
Margaret got Peggy which I can't explain
and I don't know if anyone can.
But Elizabeth really has me in a tizz:
there's Betty and Bessie and Beth;
with Libby and Lizzie, Eliza and Liz,
they've contracted the poor thing to death!
©2006
Parisology.
Given that Egyptology is the study of things Egyptian,
shouldn't parisology have something to do with France?
But no, parisology means: equivocal, uncertain,
using ambiguity; misunderstood, perchance.
And, while I'm being pedantic here, the pronunciation's bogus;
the letter "g" in such a word has suffered in translation.
Seeing as how the end of it is from the Greek word logos
shouldn't the "g" be, not as in ledge, but hard, as in delegation?
I suppose that came from French, a language tortuously vocalic,
which altered the way we English spoke, created the great divide.
With Viking ancestry in the north and southerners speaking Gallic,
no wonder the English language has most people mystified.
So parisology is a word that fits its definition:
something that isn't what it appears, misleading and confusing,
from parisos, which is also Greek, meaning equal in composition,
it isn't the kind of word I like and not one I'll be using!
© 2005
Learning To Read
I'm having to learn to read again:
at my age, a vision of hell.
It's all this texting kids do now;
they've forgotten how to spell.
To be addressed as m8 is bad enough.
or be asked "y r u here? "
At least I can make out how that works,
the meaning is pretty clear.
"Whats ur name", I understand,
"itd be nice", well enough,
though a total lack of apostrophes
can sometimes make things tough.
But when someone asked for my ASL
- that took me a while to decode,
I had to ask someone in the end -
I thought my brain would implode!
My what? My who? Speak English please!
I'm far too old for all this.
I know a few languages, just a bit,
but this is taking the piss.
© 2010
Words Words Words
The English have some problems with a lot of Americanisms;
I try remaining neutral to avoid too many schisms.
I understand that that pavements here are "sidewalks" over there
but if lifts are "elevators" what do they call moving stairs?
Foodstuffs cause no end of grief, discrepancies abound,
though I think that we both weigh things by the same old-fashioned pound.
Biscuits here are cookies there, their biscuits are our crackers
while crackers there are biscuits here! Now keep up there, you slackers.
Clothes can be confusing, be careful what you say;
you need to know the difference if you're not to lose your way.
Their jumper is a dress and not the woolly underneath.
Our braces hold our trousers up, they wear them on their teeth!
Instead they use suspenders to stop their pants descending,
but pants to us are panties there. It all seems never-ending.
Suspender belts for socks or stockings, not much in it there,
but why is theirs a "garter belt"? Where is the garter? Where?
Panty hose are what they call the things that we call tights;
designed for use with mini skirts to stop some saucy sights.
Brassiere is shortened here to bra, as you will know,
but lingerie is lingerie most everywhere you go.
Ladies' knickers, underwear, is still seen as a word;
(there it's short for knickerbockers, worn by boys I've heard).
We used to call them bloomers too, invented, goes the rumour,
by an early lady cycling fan, one Miss Amelia Bloomer.
With cars it's fairly logical; a bonnet and a hood
are pretty much the same and should be quickly understood.
The trunk is obvious really, with historical foundation,
but while a "boot" sounds strange perhaps, it's down to derivation.
A muffler in the States is just a silencer, don't laugh -
'cause we wear mufflers round our necks to keep out winter draughts.
And while we cook with gas, their autos have it in their tanks.
Our cars run on petrol. Yes, ok, I know that, thanks.
Here we transport stuff in lorries, some articulated,
while they have trucks I understand, to get things shipped or freighted.
Still I get confused and to my dictionary scamper;
an SUV's a 4x4? An SRV's a camper?
A caravan's a trailer, but is a tent a tent?
And if I wanted walking boots would they know what I meant?
What they call an apartment, would here be called a flat,
and I'm not talking tyres here, or tires, come to that.
One other thing that puzzles me, however hard I look,
is how on earth a handbag got to be a "pocketbook".
"Purse" I can understand, it makes some sense at least,
but a "pocketbook" is really an unlikely sort of beast.
I've never seen one pocket sized however large your dress
though a pocket once was separate, so that's logical I guess.
But think about the second bit: whether wide or flat
it hasn't any pages! What sort of book is that?
© 2004
Euphemisms
I wonder why men find it so very hard
not the item itself, but to name it.
Are they afraid of the technical term
or is it just so they can blame it?
It's often referred to as Willie or Dick
like they'd speak of a friend or relation
but what would they think if we women began
to see ours as a separate creation?
A woman who talked of her Betty or Sue
would be thought of as more than alarming
yet the names that men call it are really quite gross
why can't we invent something charming?
So come on you ladies with delicate tastes
who prefer euphemisms to "porn"
let's think of some pleasant alternative words
for the place where our babies are born.
(And I don't mean Hospital ! )
© 2004
They christen him John then they call him Jack!
Can anyone tell me why?
And boys named Charles are Charlie or Chuck!
It's enough to make you cry.
Frances was Fanny, years ago;
now don't you think that's sad?
Women named Maureen are still called Mo
but I guess that's not so bad.
I understand Michael being Mick,
it's simply quicker to say,
but then you get Richard becoming Dick
in a most illogical way.
Dorothy once became Dolly or Dot;
Cecilia was Cissie, poor soul.
Minnie was Minerva sometimes, or not,
and Ellen took Nellie; how droll!
William is nice and sounds better than Bill;
Edward is shortened to Ted.
Henry is Harry but also Hal;
more creative than Frederick's Fred.
Molly was Mary and Jenny was Jane,
Ann became Nancy or Nan;
Margaret got Peggy which I can't explain
and I don't know if anyone can.
But Elizabeth really has me in a tizz:
there's Betty and Bessie and Beth;
with Libby and Lizzie, Eliza and Liz,
they've contracted the poor thing to death!
©2006
Parisology.
Given that Egyptology is the study of things Egyptian,
shouldn't parisology have something to do with France?
But no, parisology means: equivocal, uncertain,
using ambiguity; misunderstood, perchance.
And, while I'm being pedantic here, the pronunciation's bogus;
the letter "g" in such a word has suffered in translation.
Seeing as how the end of it is from the Greek word logos
shouldn't the "g" be, not as in ledge, but hard, as in delegation?
I suppose that came from French, a language tortuously vocalic,
which altered the way we English spoke, created the great divide.
With Viking ancestry in the north and southerners speaking Gallic,
no wonder the English language has most people mystified.
So parisology is a word that fits its definition:
something that isn't what it appears, misleading and confusing,
from parisos, which is also Greek, meaning equal in composition,
it isn't the kind of word I like and not one I'll be using!
© 2005
Learning To Read
I'm having to learn to read again:
at my age, a vision of hell.
It's all this texting kids do now;
they've forgotten how to spell.
To be addressed as m8 is bad enough.
or be asked "y r u here? "
At least I can make out how that works,
the meaning is pretty clear.
"Whats ur name", I understand,
"itd be nice", well enough,
though a total lack of apostrophes
can sometimes make things tough.
But when someone asked for my ASL
- that took me a while to decode,
I had to ask someone in the end -
I thought my brain would implode!
My what? My who? Speak English please!
I'm far too old for all this.
I know a few languages, just a bit,
but this is taking the piss.
© 2010
Words Words Words
The English have some problems with a lot of Americanisms;
I try remaining neutral to avoid too many schisms.
I understand that that pavements here are "sidewalks" over there
but if lifts are "elevators" what do they call moving stairs?
Foodstuffs cause no end of grief, discrepancies abound,
though I think that we both weigh things by the same old-fashioned pound.
Biscuits here are cookies there, their biscuits are our crackers
while crackers there are biscuits here! Now keep up there, you slackers.
Clothes can be confusing, be careful what you say;
you need to know the difference if you're not to lose your way.
Their jumper is a dress and not the woolly underneath.
Our braces hold our trousers up, they wear them on their teeth!
Instead they use suspenders to stop their pants descending,
but pants to us are panties there. It all seems never-ending.
Suspender belts for socks or stockings, not much in it there,
but why is theirs a "garter belt"? Where is the garter? Where?
Panty hose are what they call the things that we call tights;
designed for use with mini skirts to stop some saucy sights.
Brassiere is shortened here to bra, as you will know,
but lingerie is lingerie most everywhere you go.
Ladies' knickers, underwear, is still seen as a word;
(there it's short for knickerbockers, worn by boys I've heard).
We used to call them bloomers too, invented, goes the rumour,
by an early lady cycling fan, one Miss Amelia Bloomer.
With cars it's fairly logical; a bonnet and a hood
are pretty much the same and should be quickly understood.
The trunk is obvious really, with historical foundation,
but while a "boot" sounds strange perhaps, it's down to derivation.
A muffler in the States is just a silencer, don't laugh -
'cause we wear mufflers round our necks to keep out winter draughts.
And while we cook with gas, their autos have it in their tanks.
Our cars run on petrol. Yes, ok, I know that, thanks.
Here we transport stuff in lorries, some articulated,
while they have trucks I understand, to get things shipped or freighted.
Still I get confused and to my dictionary scamper;
an SUV's a 4x4? An SRV's a camper?
A caravan's a trailer, but is a tent a tent?
And if I wanted walking boots would they know what I meant?
What they call an apartment, would here be called a flat,
and I'm not talking tyres here, or tires, come to that.
One other thing that puzzles me, however hard I look,
is how on earth a handbag got to be a "pocketbook".
"Purse" I can understand, it makes some sense at least,
but a "pocketbook" is really an unlikely sort of beast.
I've never seen one pocket sized however large your dress
though a pocket once was separate, so that's logical I guess.
But think about the second bit: whether wide or flat
it hasn't any pages! What sort of book is that?
© 2004
Euphemisms
I wonder why men find it so very hard
not the item itself, but to name it.
Are they afraid of the technical term
or is it just so they can blame it?
It's often referred to as Willie or Dick
like they'd speak of a friend or relation
but what would they think if we women began
to see ours as a separate creation?
A woman who talked of her Betty or Sue
would be thought of as more than alarming
yet the names that men call it are really quite gross
why can't we invent something charming?
So come on you ladies with delicate tastes
who prefer euphemisms to "porn"
let's think of some pleasant alternative words
for the place where our babies are born.
(And I don't mean Hospital ! )
© 2004
Sunday 28 April 2013
The Border Reivers and the Great Curse
These were the feuding families of the border country which was sometimes England, sometimes Scotland, as the border moved back and forth. They were known as Border Riders, Border Reivers, Steel Bonnets or even Border Names. Reiving was essentially robbing. Blackmayle (the origin of the word we know today) was an early form of protection racket. Greenmayle was the official rent that farmers paid to the landowner; Blackmayle was paid to powerful Reivers, by night.
The Border Reivers*
It started with Edward, Hammer of the Scots,
a time of unprecedented misery and fears.
Though peace, on the whole, lies between us today
warring continued for three hundred years.
In this land, my father's land, place of quiet hills:
Liddesdale, Redesdale, Tynedale and around
lawless behaviour became a way of life;
when people are powerless, blood-feuds abound.
Wallace and Bruce fought the English overlords
but soldiers of any sort care little for the weak.
Demanding provisions, destroying what they left,
they made humble peasant lives harrowing and bleak.
Hounded and brutalised by armies on the march,
people of the border lands, English or Scot,
survived by whatever means, raiding back and forth,
moss troopers, freebooters, reivers, the lot.
With broadswords and lances the Steel Bonnets rode,
living on the plunder and blackmayle received.
Ferocity made famous in poetry and song;
most knew well what it meant to be reived.
Cruel coarse savages, as some folk would say,
the reivers nonetheless were sensitive too;
ballad writers, poets, with music in their blood,
resilient, resolute, resourceful and true.
The riders were mobile in the summer months,
leaving their homelands to live on the hoof;
dwellings were makeshift: stones, clay, and sods;
thatching or turf overhead as a roof.
The horses that carried them were bog trotters, nags;
fell ponies, strong and stout, with long mane and tail.
With unshod feathered feet they quickly covered ground;
docile, kindly beasts, never known to fail.
Not only the poorest were rustlers and thieves;
wardens and noblemen fostered the fights.
From Lammas to Candlemas, when harvests were in,
villainy was covered by the long winter nights.
A thorn in the sides of the English for years
were Armstrongs of Liddesdale, a clan of lowland Scots,
respected and powerful - mobsters sublime.
Bells were another, and Hedleys, and Potts.
Tracing my family has brought me to this:
a faint understanding of life in the past.
While some died underground, brief lives and grim,
four lines were reivers. How the die is cast.
© 2006
Also known as Border Riders, or Names.
The Great Curse.
In fifteen hundred and twenty four
that prelate of believers,
the Bishop of Glasgow, proclaimed a curse
upon the Border Reivers.
The curse was long and itemized;
the man was quite a ranter.
Nothing in it could ever be said
to be nothing more than banter.
From head to toe, within, without,
from skin down to the bone
and just in case they might forget
the curse was writ in stone.
These men, their wives and children too,
their serving-folk as well,
their livestock, everything they owned,
were all consigned to hell
until such time as they repent
and this great curse be lifted.
I know not if they ever did;
how much things might have drifted.
My ancestors were such as these,
my father's and my mother's.
Roundly and soundly cursed were they
along with many others.
I know for sure my family
have known much tribulation.
Due to a curse? Can it be
we've suffered from damnation?
Recently the Scottish church
has called for exorcism:
a blessing to replace the curse
which led to so much schism.
© 2010
The curse can be seen in modern translation here:
http://web.mac.com/jamesdwithrow/iWeb/Site/Blog/DC5B0726-B97F-4F75-B786-B21D4A1D56BA.html
And in it's original form here:
http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~sctbew/History/cursing.htm
Thursday 25 April 2013
Human Garbage, and other social comments
Two Men Dying
Two men sit and cry
two men wait to die
one is in prison, one is not
one is cold, the other is hot.
One will be given a lethal injection
releasing him from this life
because it's the humane way to go
even though he killed his wife.
The other lies in a hospital bed
he will not last the night
yet he must die in agony
to kill him wouldn't be right.
Two men sit and cry
two men wait to die
one a murderer given a buffer
one an innocent left to suffer.
© 2001
Under Bridges
Life was cartons
under bridges
begging coins from passers by
newsprint blankets
cardboard mattress
sleeping underneath the sky
just a youngster
not yet twenty
faithful mongrel by his side
eating sometimes
bathing rarely
How he lived, and how he died.
© 2001
Down But Not Out.
Regularly we assemble
and each observe
the downcast eyes
the drooping stance
of the dejected,
the shifty with their
hasty furtive glances,
a few hard stares
from the brazen
toughing it out.
Reluctantly we advance,
shuffling, hands in pockets
to sign away our dignity,
admit defeat,
but Hey!
for a little longer
we will not starve,
our families will eat.
Dec 2001
Human Garbage.
I saw a woman lying there,
just lying on the ground,
as if she'd simply gone to sleep
in a comfy place she'd found
except the place was white with snow
her bed was hard and gray
and the blankets that now covered her
bore news of yesterday
And the silent stars looked down on her
to bid a fond goodnight
to this, their child, now fast asleep
so still, and cold, and white
and people were just walking past
as if she wasn't there;
perhaps they they hadn't noticed her
perhaps they didn't care.
I wondered where she came from
and what her name had been
what tales she might have told us
of the many things she'd seen.
Just one more of life's tragedies,
a silent bitter end
for someone who perhaps had been
a mother, or a friend.
Were there none to mourn her?
I wondered as I stood
and offered up a little prayer -
I thought that someone should -
for soon she would be carried off
examined and cremated
like so much that is tossed aside
her value underrated.
© January 2002
Six Million
Six million people
Ordinary people
Living out their lives
Soon to become
Living breathing skeletons
Empty eyed yet walking
People seen as things
Inconvenient things
Things to be disposed of.
So they were.
© 2002
Two men sit and cry
two men wait to die
one is in prison, one is not
one is cold, the other is hot.
One will be given a lethal injection
releasing him from this life
because it's the humane way to go
even though he killed his wife.
The other lies in a hospital bed
he will not last the night
yet he must die in agony
to kill him wouldn't be right.
Two men sit and cry
two men wait to die
one a murderer given a buffer
one an innocent left to suffer.
© 2001
Under Bridges
Life was cartons
under bridges
begging coins from passers by
newsprint blankets
cardboard mattress
sleeping underneath the sky
just a youngster
not yet twenty
faithful mongrel by his side
eating sometimes
bathing rarely
How he lived, and how he died.
© 2001
Down But Not Out.
Regularly we assemble
and each observe
the downcast eyes
the drooping stance
of the dejected,
the shifty with their
hasty furtive glances,
a few hard stares
from the brazen
toughing it out.
Reluctantly we advance,
shuffling, hands in pockets
to sign away our dignity,
admit defeat,
but Hey!
for a little longer
we will not starve,
our families will eat.
Dec 2001
Human Garbage.
I saw a woman lying there,
just lying on the ground,
as if she'd simply gone to sleep
in a comfy place she'd found
except the place was white with snow
her bed was hard and gray
and the blankets that now covered her
bore news of yesterday
And the silent stars looked down on her
to bid a fond goodnight
to this, their child, now fast asleep
so still, and cold, and white
and people were just walking past
as if she wasn't there;
perhaps they they hadn't noticed her
perhaps they didn't care.
I wondered where she came from
and what her name had been
what tales she might have told us
of the many things she'd seen.
Just one more of life's tragedies,
a silent bitter end
for someone who perhaps had been
a mother, or a friend.
Were there none to mourn her?
I wondered as I stood
and offered up a little prayer -
I thought that someone should -
for soon she would be carried off
examined and cremated
like so much that is tossed aside
her value underrated.
© January 2002
Six Million
Six million people
Ordinary people
Living out their lives
Soon to become
Living breathing skeletons
Empty eyed yet walking
People seen as things
Inconvenient things
Things to be disposed of.
So they were.
© 2002
Tuesday 23 April 2013
Four Vampire Poems.
VAMPIRE SIRE DESIRE
Blood. Dripping,
from the punctures in your neck,
trickling in rivulets
across your naked breast.
Warm metallic taste of blood
thick upon my tongue while
the musky scent of passion
still lingers on your skin.
Your hands begin to stroke me
caress my head and face
your lips are wide, inviting, but -
I don't have time to waste.
Licking you I feel once more
your body start to twitch
pumping out the vital fluid,
nourishing and rich.
I drink it in and swallow,
you start to moan and writhe,
I sense the start of something
which will not quickly die...
Your eyes look darkly into mine
begging for release
eager for the climax
of this sanguinary feast.
Here, my love, taste of me,
feed upon me well
we will share the future
even though it be in hell...
© 20/04/02
ENDLESSLY ADORING
For aeons I have loved you
endlessly adoring.
As we sleep by day
cold flesh warmed by closeness
I rest securely in your arms
knowing none can harm us
or ever bring to nothing
the love I have for you.
Awakening at twilight
I gaze upon your beauty
and drink it in, and sigh
hesistantly reaching out
to gently touch your face
and watch you as you stir;
centuries of sighing
countless decades of devotion
these my gift to you.
By night we feed together
hunt our human prey
secretly and undetected
taking just a little
like butterflies we drink
a sip here, a few drops there
doing no real harm;
our code of honour dominates
demanding mercy always
and this I owe to you.
My love for you through countless years
has changed my heart and mellowed it
softening and moulding it
making me compassionate
benevolent and kind
susceptible to reason
vulnerable yet strong.
How else could I endure the pain
of watching through infinity
as history repeats itself
time and time again?
How else but for you?
© May2002
DELIGHTS OF THE NIGHT
We roam beneath the covering of night's protective veil
lit only by the cold hard celestial effulgence.
Tonight beneath the starlight my love and I will journey
seeking others for our pleasure
dining on their freely flowing blood and dining well.
We, the lost, whose souls are gone, venture forth at twilight,
crepuscularly creeping t'wards our own nocturnal world
which is the haunts of the undead.
Then back, back to our domain for more perverted pleasure:
further flagrant acts of lust of passion and of pain.
With fascination I observe how curling raven hair contrasts
with naked milk white flesh, luscious in its pulchritude,
bewitching me anew;
and as I'm standing, mesmerised, a hand approaches, touches me
and once again I'm drawn into the place of no return.
Limbs entwine and bodies meet with passion nigh unspeakable
until I pause to gaze upon the body I adore;
captivating, calculating, torturing my senses
causing me to cry aloud in absolute abandonment,
and ultimate surrender.
We do not try, my love and I, to simulate that tepid thing,
pathetic in its squeamishness, that masquerades as love;
our love is honest, as are we; all or nothing, hot or cold.
Anything conceivable we hold to be achievable
and love redeems it all.
© 2002
BLOOD LUST
Bright eyes gaze out from a smooth white face,
a ghost of a smile appears.
Hidden, for now, are the tiny fangs;
absent the blood-stained tears.
An icy finger touches my cheek,
traces the line of my throat;
breathing suspended I reach for him,
seize the lapels of his coat.
Cold lips press mine; I feel his breath
chill as a winter's morn
and drown in the depths of the brooding stare
as a deep desire is born.
"Take me, take me now," I beg.
"Don't leave me this way," I plead
then swoon as he bends towards my neck,
gasp as I start to bleed.
Strong arms like iron bands surround
my feeble, fainting form;
I'm conscious again of the contrast
between him and me so warm.
I feel the lifeblood leaving me
entering into his stream;
my mind is hazy, my body weak,
in a waking orgasmic dream.
He pulls me close, to drink his blood
and my heart begins to sing.
Life as I know it will end tonight.
What will tomorrow bring?
© April 2003
Blood. Dripping,
from the punctures in your neck,
trickling in rivulets
across your naked breast.
Warm metallic taste of blood
thick upon my tongue while
the musky scent of passion
still lingers on your skin.
Your hands begin to stroke me
caress my head and face
your lips are wide, inviting, but -
I don't have time to waste.
Licking you I feel once more
your body start to twitch
pumping out the vital fluid,
nourishing and rich.
I drink it in and swallow,
you start to moan and writhe,
I sense the start of something
which will not quickly die...
Your eyes look darkly into mine
begging for release
eager for the climax
of this sanguinary feast.
Here, my love, taste of me,
feed upon me well
we will share the future
even though it be in hell...
© 20/04/02
ENDLESSLY ADORING
For aeons I have loved you
endlessly adoring.
As we sleep by day
cold flesh warmed by closeness
I rest securely in your arms
knowing none can harm us
or ever bring to nothing
the love I have for you.
Awakening at twilight
I gaze upon your beauty
and drink it in, and sigh
hesistantly reaching out
to gently touch your face
and watch you as you stir;
centuries of sighing
countless decades of devotion
these my gift to you.
By night we feed together
hunt our human prey
secretly and undetected
taking just a little
like butterflies we drink
a sip here, a few drops there
doing no real harm;
our code of honour dominates
demanding mercy always
and this I owe to you.
My love for you through countless years
has changed my heart and mellowed it
softening and moulding it
making me compassionate
benevolent and kind
susceptible to reason
vulnerable yet strong.
How else could I endure the pain
of watching through infinity
as history repeats itself
time and time again?
How else but for you?
© May2002
DELIGHTS OF THE NIGHT
We roam beneath the covering of night's protective veil
lit only by the cold hard celestial effulgence.
Tonight beneath the starlight my love and I will journey
seeking others for our pleasure
dining on their freely flowing blood and dining well.
We, the lost, whose souls are gone, venture forth at twilight,
crepuscularly creeping t'wards our own nocturnal world
which is the haunts of the undead.
Then back, back to our domain for more perverted pleasure:
further flagrant acts of lust of passion and of pain.
With fascination I observe how curling raven hair contrasts
with naked milk white flesh, luscious in its pulchritude,
bewitching me anew;
and as I'm standing, mesmerised, a hand approaches, touches me
and once again I'm drawn into the place of no return.
Limbs entwine and bodies meet with passion nigh unspeakable
until I pause to gaze upon the body I adore;
captivating, calculating, torturing my senses
causing me to cry aloud in absolute abandonment,
and ultimate surrender.
We do not try, my love and I, to simulate that tepid thing,
pathetic in its squeamishness, that masquerades as love;
our love is honest, as are we; all or nothing, hot or cold.
Anything conceivable we hold to be achievable
and love redeems it all.
© 2002
BLOOD LUST
Bright eyes gaze out from a smooth white face,
a ghost of a smile appears.
Hidden, for now, are the tiny fangs;
absent the blood-stained tears.
An icy finger touches my cheek,
traces the line of my throat;
breathing suspended I reach for him,
seize the lapels of his coat.
Cold lips press mine; I feel his breath
chill as a winter's morn
and drown in the depths of the brooding stare
as a deep desire is born.
"Take me, take me now," I beg.
"Don't leave me this way," I plead
then swoon as he bends towards my neck,
gasp as I start to bleed.
Strong arms like iron bands surround
my feeble, fainting form;
I'm conscious again of the contrast
between him and me so warm.
I feel the lifeblood leaving me
entering into his stream;
my mind is hazy, my body weak,
in a waking orgasmic dream.
He pulls me close, to drink his blood
and my heart begins to sing.
Life as I know it will end tonight.
What will tomorrow bring?
© April 2003
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)