Blood Verse: The Vampire as Poet Read online

  BLOOD VERSE:

  THE VAMPIRE AS POET

  by

  Derek Clendening

  Other Kindle Titles by Derek Clendening

  Novels

  The Between Years (Ghosts)

  The Breeding (Zombies)

  Collections

  Clock Strikes Two and Other Stories

  Short Stories and Long Fiction

  Two Little Dead Girls

  The Lonesome Child on Wysocki Street

  The Business

  Young Adult

  The Vampire Way (Vampire Way Series Book #1)

  Blood Promise (Vampire Way Series Book #2)

  © 2007, 2012 Derek Clendening

  Dedication

  “Written with much love for my good pal Owen Clendening–the kid brother I never had and the awesome nephew I do have.”

  I won’t take up too much of your time here. This collection was first conceived in 2005 and published by Sams Dot Publishing in 2007. I sold the last of my copies at a book signing event in 2011 and I was stunned at how eager those readers were to have the collection. The thought that there was still an audience for this collection hadn’t occurred to me. I have wonderful memories of the writing and publishing process for this work. In fact, I still keep in touch with the editor who worked with me on it. I thought it would be a lot of fun to re-release this work to the general public, who I hope will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed working on it.

  Derek Clendening

  In Broad Daylight

  I feel courageous

  gripping an ink-filled sword

  recording the boldest move

  in my centuries.

  I bask sunlight’s orange glow

  and chronicle daylight’s splendor in verse.

  My muse paints a picture

  and I imagine what

  daylight might be like.

  Walking the streets

  I stalk by night

  the row of trees

  cloaked in darkness

  now dazzle with light.

  This world is like

  a parallel universe.

  Verse will never be powerful enough to describe it.

  My lips may never convey the experience to my race.

  As the sun’s rays roast my milky flesh,

  I scribble my verse

  a word at a time

  watching lively children

  run and play.

  These joyous beings

  who sleep safely

  while I roam

  the night.

  I call them to me...

  The world lives while I sleep

  and offers more color than black, white and red.

  I approach a child

  playing alone so happily

  and offer my hand.

  He denies my existence,

  like no one is there,

  like I don’t belong

  in this world.

  I’m an apparition to him,

  a friend that cannot be seen.

  The light grows intense,

  and I become weak.

  My time in the daylight has exceeded

  what any undead is allowed.

  Inspiration, my consolation,

  countless tales I have collected.

  The experience will stoke my muse for centuries;

  the reality of daylight a forever companion

  to my imagination.

  The Face in the Water

  My half-naked body rolls in the wet grass.

  My world is fuzzy and blurred.

  Tonight’s events haunt me like a

  waking dream.

  Steaming hot, dark, sexual. I plead not to wake.

  My eyelids part, my neck throbs. My

  throat ablaze, waking from a carnal paradise.

  I rise to my feet, my head swimming and

  arches made of melting rubber,

  I stumble to the river.

  Memories rush back;

  a raging climax.

  I remember fingers caressing

  my neck,

  my breasts.

  I remember him now.

  The man,

  the monster,

  the charming face.

  His full warm lips seduced me.

  He approached me from behind;

  I savored his firm body pressed against me,

  his lips and tongue wetted me where I now ache.

  His teeth willed bolts of pleasure from head to toe,

  rising and bubbling, I braced for explosion.

  He clung tighter to me, loving me and

  triggered an orgasmic throb.

  Pulling between my legs with a staccato pulse.

  until the lights went out.

  With my lover’s image blasted in my mind,

  I crawl over cold, wet rocks, slither to the river

  and splash water on my face, my neck.

  The water relieves the pain, but thankfully

  cannot wash away my lover’s mark.

  I stop to stare at my face in the water.

  Distorted by light ripples,

  I see someone different

  than the girl I once knew.

  My face has changed, and also my eyes, my teeth.

  My desires change from powerful lust

  to voracious hunger

  as night turns to day.

  The face in the water fades

  as my change finishes and the morning sun

  blisters my shoulders.

  I embrace the change my lover made in me,

  knowing what they are,

  night and day from the creature I once was.

  The Gift

  With a pen between my razor fangs,

  I sit before my Victorian home

  above the river,

  scribbling countless words,

  the thousands of verses my heart has composed.

  The river washes over a league of souls,

  all the victims who feed me.

  The words I write as a grace to

  the blood they shed

  as a sacrificial communion.

  My rhymes are pleasure

  to soothe mortal pain.

  My meter is beauty

  balancing immortal ugliness.

  These words can right the wrong

  I create each time

  I leave this house.

  I write to absolve the pain

  I cause the innocent

  by my hunt each night.

  The lines I scribble each night,

  are gifts to humankind,

  for the awfulness I indulge

  to survive.

  My pen stops,

  stagnant,

  but is prepared to write again

  after I drain

  the mortal I see

  approaching on the sidewalk.

  Immortal Genesis

  Far from the garden,

  I spy two unashamed sinners,

  three of us made from the same hands,

  abusing a paradise I never knew.

  I, Adam of the undead,

  have existed mortal

  since the call for light was spoken.

  My story was excluded from Genesis

  as the shame of He who made me.

  Like his first two mortals,

  I was crafted in his image,

  set to breathe,

  to live,

  but he dared not duplicate from my rib.

  Granted life but desired dead,

  made to continue an unnatural life,

  in a World more cruel

  than any undead’s heart.

  I fell victim to my first temptation;r />
  it was a greater red than any apple.

  The ultimate act of desperation–

  the life of a savage I was forced to live.

  In vampiric evolution, I, too will

  be fruitful and multiply.

  I’ve learned Adam’s words, mastered his phrases,

  to bless my life with a narrative.

  My suffering knows a language.

  The poet serves a purpose greater

  than simply naming things.

  My pen is more powerful than my body and

  verse is how I will tell my story.

  These lines are only a chapter

  to chronicle the first of the undead race.

  First Lesson

  The victim’s heart is slowing

  but you needn’t wait for the final beat.

  Drink his blood–don’t be shy!

  Take your first sip of the precious fluid.

  When the victim gasped, I lunged for the neck

  where my teacher started.

  Not the neck–I’ve started there;

  the flesh is too thick for you to rip.

  Try the artery at his wrist,

  an easy vein for baby fangs.

  The flesh feels thin while I nestle

  my teeth against his heavy wrist.

  Just sink your teeth in there–

  yes, that’s the right idea.

  Savor your first taste.

  I hope it’s all you expected.

  The taste is breath-taking,

  and I long to describe it.

  Take the neck another day.

  Your next lesson will

  teach you to attack,

  kill on your own

  For now, rest. Drink

  before the blood gets cold.

  The blood makes me wiser, creative,

  but I have no pen to express my new feelings.

  I see you’re full.

  Your young stomach is so small.

  Before tomorrow’s lesson, you will hunger again

  and you will want it all.

  I take the victim’s final drops,

  smearing them with my fingers

  and write my new feelings

  in his blood.

  Dry and Deserted

  Lustful

  moist, humid lips

  melting onto mine.

  Chiseled Adonis

  firm against my breast.

  Sweating,

  savoring each salty drop.

  Sharp,

  piercing teeth,

  sinking slowly;

  an orgasmic pulse

  beating to an erratic tempo.

  Warmth,

  his singing embrace

  a Summer’s day with dark eclipse

  radiating black-petaled flowers

  a new soul enriched

  with a lust for darkness.

  Fuel,

  together, sharing the life’s wine,

  a warm, crimson nectar;

  but one is stolen,

  with each deep thrill.

  Cold,

  brisk and dry,

  the remnants of my

  heart incinerated, and

  ashes scatter in a chilled wind.

  He takes what is pertinent,

  then moves on to the next.

  Empty,

  a soul hollow,

  a canyon,

  resonating his echoing name.

  The Stolen Verses of a Gifted Earthling

  Sleep now, my dear Charity,

  your words are safe with me.

  Your tender prose mirrors your beauty.

  Written in ink and

  sealed with your precious blood.

  Your blood was all I wanted

  when I seduced you

  late last night

  at the bar.

  Your blood, rich and red,

  a delicacy to the immortal

  of Planet Zalicon.

  Your fecund verse

  will quicken our arid souls;

  your rhyme and meter

  will teach us emotion,

  how to hurt

  how to love.

  The words I’ve found

  in your stacks of books

  and on your countless scraps

  of paper

  can never match

  the dazzling lines

  your heart sang to me.

  Tall and solid,

  grisly, dark lover!

  Take me every place

  you have to go.

  Whisk me to the end

  of the Earth.

  Lead me to the stars,

  to the moon,

  and love me more in space

  if you must.

  What I would give

  to have them again

  while your throat was

  still intact.

  I write these words

  to try for myself,

  mimicking your style.

  I hope to get it right. . .

  If only to make you

  breathe again

  so you can guide

  my hand across the page.

  It is not only the verses,

  but the words themselves,

  and how they stimulate my mind.

  Though your body remains

  an empty shell on Earth

  you live on in me,

  through your words and blood.

  I am a carrier of your message

  to embody your meaning

  as I soar past the sky

  to another galaxy.

  So painfully selected,

  your verse I take with me.

  These words will serve beauty

  on our planet

  and so renew

  our immortal kind.

  Blood and Ink

  On the table before me

  lay two powerful tools

  of equal strength and shape:

  one, my beloved pen, the ink-filled

  treasure that serves me no longer;

  second, a stake, a splintering dagger

  that triggers my fear at its sight,

  though I fear that my despair

  will force me to use it tonight.

  My pen is my enemy,

  its ink dried out, no longer

  transcribing my words.

  A fruitful muse abandoned me,

  like a traitorous friend.

  An eternity devoid of words

  lies ahead. . .

  with no hope or inspiration to guide me.

  I see myself like others of my kind,

  afflicted by a second curse

  of artists and immortals.

  I raise the stake above my chest,

  its point aimed at a heart

  that no longer beats.

  I prepare to drive it home;

  an eternity without words

  is not one I want to live.

  Black–No Cream, No Sugar

  Shaded in my desolate corner,

  pecking at my formidable drink,

  I watch the line before the counter grow

  while I compose my lines,

  developing neatly, row by row.

  Hoards of people pass my

  watching eyes every hour.

  So many would-be victims,

  all fresh pads for inspiration.

  Though this population screams generic,

  clumped into groups, differed

  only by their tenure and their peaks,

  many of them are loud,

  too many lacking thought.

  A great deal void of character–

  except for the girl,

  with the coiling red hair,

  ordering a double-double.

  My razor teeth bite down

  onto my lips

  as I raise the steaming cup

  to my mouth.

  My raging urge is soothed

  by another fluid–

  my pen to write out

&nbs
p; my storming drive.

  I pick up my pen

  and try to find the words

  to describe what I long

  to have for dinner.

  Meet me in the alley

  fiery-haired vixen,

  to whisper and waltz,

  basking in our nothingness.

  Feel my teeth bore deep inside you.

  Broil from my heat

  as I cherish your warmth.

  My pen longs to meet you

  in all your secret places.

  My boiling ink

  labors hard against eruption

  as our bodies cling together

  and our light, fluttering hearts

  beat as one.

  I wad up

  the page before me

  as my hands quake with