at the age of 16

the soft Transylvania vampire
sucked my hot blood in buckets
from a book shelf lined with Greek classics
where Sophocles wrote his plays during the day
as a bag of woe hung limply from his veins.

i looked into her bat eyes before any drama could be
realized by the addition of a third actor
and became lost in an ancient romance
when her microphone was stuck inside my ass
where even in the darkness everything could be explained.

but at the age of 16 only fragments still remained
of what i wanted to be when the sun would fully shine
while in the shadows of my war a hard rope held my soul
by the door where a machine gun was tied around my neck
and the helicopter flew into a terrible rage.

i lived to be 90 or 91 i can't remember which but the really
remarkable thing was that i wrote many good tragedies
while pissing on a neighbor's green grass in a suburban area where
European cars were thoroughly washed every Saturday
and vampires were thought to only live in books.