This Hovel with Burning Passion

Cold water rots the walls,
but his fingers seize
her lovely lips

To kiss away the dirt
of former flings.
The mold may gather in armies
up above their heads,

But the comfort of careless caresses
keeps clean skin
and nights normally lonely.


Students in black and crimson
come to speak to the animals.
They come on bat’s wings and wolf’s feet.
They come to unearth—to dig up the detritus
of centuries of horror.
For meat they get cadavers,
and when the Master arrives
they serve some strumpet’s spleen
with eggs and mother’s milk.

There, somewhere south of Hermannstadt,
deep in the perpetual night,
they hymn the Black Stone
and salt the wounds first cut by the Count,
an honored alumnus.
The ashes of Faustian hearts
are drunk in the moonlight,
and jewels rubbed lovingly.

Only the peasants are left
to hang garlic flowers
and sharpen stakes.
Only they, with their Latin crosses
and broken backs,
see the stink of the Scholomance
and its rotten desire.

Morgantown Pulp

A rainy day pours down,
dampening already moldy pages.
The comic book store ghoul
has become the library ghost,
smelling of coffee and sandwiches.
He’s hunting vampires between
the hours of noon and closing time.

Who Can Say What Grave?

Who can say what grave is ours?
Is it shadowed by elms?
or a mere ditch in the cold?
Time and death know not the conclusion,
but each plays their part.

A touch of failing heart,
or cancer-consumed at noontime?

God made the design,
but keeps it secret.
Hoarding our health like gold
smirking in the clouds
while we count the rain.

Who can say what grave is ours?
Though carrion birds circle above,
the mystery is still there.
Will it be in fire or water?
In bed or at sea?
Nobody knows
and that’s the solemn blessing.