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Tuesday, January 27, 2015

How does my blood taste?

Oh, my bittersweet mongrel dog, how does my blood taste? 
Are the spoils of your hunt spilling over with the sustenance you so
crave?  Is the weight of your task truly a mere afterthought-a labored but brief loss of breath, stinging but subtle salty sweat, a minor cramp in the wake of an incredible orgasm?

I wait, shackled by your curse, a prisoner behind the mile-high windows and the cold concrete walls of the law, gazing out on the row of aged bent birch trees that line the vast entryway to the brooding domain. They stand defiant like war-torn Nazis, rooted fierce against winter's assault. Rugged green English Ivy wraps their trunks like fingerless gloves, disguising every trace of delicate white paper flesh, holding brittle branches fast and firm as they stretch crooked fingers outward, accusing the world just beyond the glorious and vast perimeter. Justice will prevail, they declare, the ancient, steadfast guardians of the sacred chambers within. Justice will prevail, they sneer like the grey-headed blue-suits who bathe in their shadows. 

When alas the trees fall to the torture of time, they will journey deeper into the stone maze to complete their life cycle-the resurrection-to become the very life-blood of truth as we know it. They will rise again, adorned with royal colors, donning the faces of dead old men, numbered and ranked. All hail Mammon. The resurrection, the life, the body and the blood- the blood that was shed for thee by the nameless, the humble, the weak and forgotten. Without thee there is no salvation. Without the sheep, the wolves cannot feast. Without my blood, oh vampire, you will perish.

Again I ask, oh bastard bitch, how does my blood taste?








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