A Romance for Vampires
by J. P. McDonald
That which follows,
was written impromtu,
on the promting
of seeing a poem
by a young gent,
about a suicide attempt;
in which he described
at some lenght,
the 'beauty' of watching
blood ooze from his own cut wrists?
This was my answer to him,
as follows:
Lest I should be misunderstood
by the soft, cushy dweebs,
of self-love pushing,
pity pandering puke,
let it be known
that I was once rescuted from a like condition
of contemplating
the ulitmate consumation
of love for myself,
in the only expression
it ever has,
in the B Movie Romance
of Self-Slaughter?
I'm going to be tough
on this lad, okay,
in order to walk him
away from the edge
of this "bridge to the future",
so stay the hell
out of my way:
Hey!
Hey you!
What're you doin' there?
You need help?
Well here it is:
What's the matter?
Only a vampire
would find beauty
in a poem like this
There is nothing
in existence
less aesthetic
and further from poetry
than self-pity,
and the trouble you're having
is the trouble with this whole
self-loving/self-destroying
age of bent-over-backward,
self-ass-kissing, self-rape
of indifference.
Save your pity for me,
or for some other victim
of the suck-upping
fear-ridden status quo;
these passers-by in the cold,
who are so smug
in the warmth of their own snot,
and the Third Reichian conceit
of praising themselves to think
it is not they who are shivering,
to be standing out
smoking in forty-five below;
turn you pity into rage,
against these backward capped,
booted-up
unshaven,
goose-stepping,
Personal Computers
without conscience!
Rage, rage against the
Neo-Victorian prigs
of Politically Correct prudery
who with their hands dripping in
fresh baby blood,
flatter themselves to point
a gore dipped finger
at my cigarette!
See these hysterical,
tv propaganda-fed,
brain-dead automatons
marching throught the cold
that comes of their own
high pressure area of fear,
that swirls in the vortices
of all their crimes
agains the rights and dignity
of man while they make scapegoat
their filthy guilt
in some poor, huddled bastard
like you or me who they seek
to beat off into the barbed wire bushes
beyond conscience,
branding some New Jew,
for the delight of their hatred,
unto the pleasure of their
pityful conceit.
Rage, Rage, Rage!
And dry your eyes laddy,
so long as there's a battle
left to be fought and lost!
For we had really won,
in all the fun of the fighting!
And if you must cry
then weep, wail and howl
for the stolen wages
of the temporary
slaves of the backsward capped,
bastards of the self-ass kissed machine!
