Disciple-of-Madness

Old Wickerbones, stop prowling ‘round the crypts Your children are sorely missing you. Old Wickerbones, the doctor says drinking blood’ll clog up your arteries (Dying of a heart-attack would be pathetic for a creature of your caliber, anyways) Old Wickerbones, sing a sweet song once in a while, Howling like a dog keeps the neighbors up at night. Old Wickerbones, stop mutilating whoever happens to pass by How would you like it if I sunk my teeth into your jugular? Old Wickerbones, smile nicely ‘stead of bearing those fangs Scaring away small children isn’t very productive (Mow the lawn or cut the azaleas, wo

he melts against my skin, midnight winter blood     flowing in              rivulets to stain the coverlet in tears i freeze, holding on to his writhing figure as he burns in my grasp making love to an iceman is a painstaking art, figures coalesce, piercing and withdrawing as we goad the Reaper (come and play, masked deceiver- for beauty lies in this unhallowed union) the shadow of death, that cloak of darkness, blankets our naked forms making love to an iceman                   i draw shapes out of shadows        coaxing darkness towards light he tells me the arctic is warm and sublime, where lights stretch on forever u