Serpentine Squiggles

I met her red in tooth‍—yet ashen claws,
for all their keen capacity to hold
a terror‍-​pulsing heart by vein (life paused
but for a monster’s whim) instead they fold,
too white to hide, yet curled and stripped of threat.
She froze on sight, her eyes as five foul lakes
that bloom with algae.
  that bloom with algae. In night’s mist, I met
a hunter, red with mortal blood. It takes
such courage (blinking ignorance, rather)
to not cry out. Tongue lined with needle‍-​tips,
a bristling tentacle with bloody lather,
she sheathes that siphon. So easily she rips,
with maw or claw. Gone as swift as to appear.
Phantom? Dream? But those lakes‍—did I see a tear?

Awakening from nightmares I must pray,
to banish that red specter from my mind.
Legends recount that silk‍-​spun vampires stray
from heaven’s chaste tributaries which wind
Our souls to earth and back again. To feed
on mortal blood they sate the emptiness
even agnostic alchemists concede
upsets nature’s design.
  upsets nature’s design. I rise and dress,
stepping onto that path whose air could ebb
atroubled thoughts. (Thus I walk, when astir.)
Retreading the night’s steps, I find no cobweb
Nor splattered blood. No trace lingers of her.

Angst tore me from my bed, a wander‍-​flight,
a conjured threat. Alone… why do I sigh?

Allayed, I could enjoy a week’s reprieve
from fear that elder creatures mythic lurk,
hauntingly. Waking life would not believe
in bug‍-​like apparitions. So I work,
assistant to a binder of books‍—hence these airs
afflicting me. A vanity more apt for
a bookseller… not mere help. I’m used to stares
and ruder words. But when I leave, I swore
a cowled figure dogged my steps.
  a cowled figure dogged my steps. With sudden a swerve,
abrupt, intent on shedding my‍—illusory?‍—
pursuit, I trekked into the woods, a nerve
easing as silence circles me. To worry
once more of conjured threats‍—the thought of her!
Before I leave, a tickle, gleaming‍—gossamer.

I do not sleep. Where silk touched me, I scratch
till blood welled up. Fear looms anew. Eyes closed,
I smell metallic‍-​wet; and it would match
The smell of her, so red in fang, yet those
Keen claws remained acurl. Only by dream could
A silk‍-​spun vampire’s mercy not be jest.
Yet my stalker! Yet the gossamer in the wood!

Again this angst atear: arise and test.
In gown I seek the path by misted night.
The air ebbs not my mind’s troubled barrage
No torch, no moon, the shadows swell. It might,
(must, rather) mean more margin for mirage.

Alone‍—again I sigh. But this is no failed passion
from alley dark come hands sharp, pale‍—ashen.

I meet her baring tooth and claw, both dry‍—
for now. From shadows she comes forth, swift
on supernumerary limbs. If my
voice trembled, none would fault the fear. Or if
I stay amute… it’s fear. Just fear. I squeak,
Then try again, exclaiming, “Vermin, beast,
nightmare! You’re real!”
  nightmare! You’re real!”Tongue unfurls‍—then she speaks:
“Morsel, prey, victim. You’re no more than a feast‍—
You know just what I am. Why come? Why blather at me?”

“But I could ask the same of you. You’re fast,
and sharp of claw. The night we meet‍—you flee!”

Like proof at once her fangs thrust near! “Your last
words will be any more insults.” Struck dumb,
I nod. Cool chitin crushes; two hearts hum.

Swift‍-​gone as swift‍-​appeared. I’m left rudely
perplexed, unanswered but for the image
of festering green eyes that leer crudely
just like a man agape, yearning to pillage
my scarely‍-​gown’d flesh.
  my scarely‍-​gown’d flesh. I know just what she
is: vermin! beast! She is opaque to life;
her shadow is the death of men!
  her shadow is the death of men! But we
together stood, even while her fangs were a knife
against my throat (my flesh pressed softly, pulse
so flutter‍-​fast in carapaced embrace).

In bed, she plagues my thoughts, and I convulse,
I shiver. None would fault the fear. Her grace‍—
the chimeric mercy, not the skittering‍—
is torment! Like I’m venom‍-​bit… first sting.

I now wait nightly, at that alley where
This sordid song began. When she arrives,
I do not scream. She knows I’m mute, won’t dare
to speak if fang‍-​tips graze my flesh. What writhes
elsewise‍—my fear, my angst‍—finds peace in those
tight chitin‍-​limbs, (and her silk seems to soften,
that woven aura finds release.) It goes
farther each time, a bold hand schemes to often
test at my modesty. I balk, I blush;
and stamper out the questions unsuccumbed.
“Why don’t you kill me, beast?” And feel me gush.

And she replies, in growl, with silk‍-​string strummed:
“One cry‍—one report‍—would it take to alarm
them all. You won’t. You’d rather ride my arms.”

As one steps off a mountain’s ledge which ramps higher,
with that same quicker‍-​than‍-​doubt impulse, I gave
invitation: may that insectoid vampire
enter my home. By now those fangs engraved
my throat‍—the second sting. We walked; she held
my hand in ashen claw forlorn‍—like bone.

Once past the window’s threshold, I marvelled
to see the bug unclad by gloom unknown.
Her hair a diaphanous tapestry,
with nesting spiders fain to weave and teem.
Her cuticle renders in travesty
a knight’s proud plate: pale segments slimily gleam.

Two eyes of five I meet, and each fang grins.
“You are vile!” I say. But her reply‍—a kiss‍—wins.

The first of her sweet, siren stings was chance
to glimpse and wonder. How she piqued‍—no, pierced‍—
my curiosity, my mind entranced,
run‍-​through with doubt, infested by a fierce
desire. What bloodless hands lend service to
teeth seeking flesh?
  teeth seeking flesh? “All life is mine to drain,
extracting blood and dreams. For that end you
still draw breath. Death has nothing for me. A slain
prey yields a meal‍—and trouble,” finally
she’d answered me.
  she’d answered me. “A beast with no interest
in killing.” And I laughed‍—but primally
she growled her ire. Teeth slice my gown. My breast
bleeds out. I smile; the second siren sting
benumbed this meat: a rag for her to wring.

No day can pass without a thought of her.
My fleeting muse, I retch! Yet that allure‍—
as potent as it is obscure‍—that it were
her inner kindness sparing me. Demure
she devils me! I loathe, with loathsome whine,
to feel that prick… Her fangs, venomed with drug,
transfiguring all sight to webs so fine,
segmented shapes, all tinted with that bug
eye‍-​color: noxious green.
  eye‍-​color: noxious green. How weak I grow
when fangs extract their due. A row of holes‍—
of puncture‍-​wounds‍—surround my neck. I know
this parasite’s delight’s disease. No souls
but mortal’s can ascend.
  but mortal’s can ascend. A heart like mud
except by pulse of stolen blood!

I saw the tears. Her pride is guarded strict.
So quick to threats, or to avenge insults
I called her vile, a monster. Yet I predict,
when met with no alarm cried, what results
is our… I dread to call it a… romance.

She matches my night‍-​gown with garments silk,
in bed with me, warmed by mammalian heat.
My questions multiply, of her, and her ilk,
and what she wants in me.
  and what she wants in me. Sting once we meet,
Sting twice, again each night she drinks her fill.
(Sans venom, I quake worse than days sans tea.)
Her hands have stripped all modesty… “But still
we could go farther,” sensually sings she.

Sweet siren sting verse three makes me her wife!
Her abdominal fang injecting larval life!