Who is he?

As I gaze upon his twitching corpse, gunpowder and almond in the air,

I can see he's wearing your clothes.

Is your scent still on them?

Is your cologne, brought heavenly upon me

at dinner, at the ball, still there?

His face, or what's left of it, is afraid.

He died afraid of me. Were you, too,

afraid of me?

Your best kept secret was another man,

and that man was not me. My heart twists

at the scent (of blood, not your cologne.

I can't smell your cologne).

Your cheval glass is toppled.

Could you not stand to look at yourself? Whose face did you see? Not

your own.

Your face is in my mirror.

I lift your heart out of your chest and hold it, still.

He's stopped moving.

I step over spilled brains and right the mirror.

His body holds no reflection.

Who is he?

John Waters was right:

live for filth.

I see the grit between your teeth even as

you gasp for air. Tell me,

do little creatures scream for mercy as you

rip them apart? You did.

You're the littlest filthy creature of them all,

cowering and squirming while you

hump my boot.

Your teeth gnash. Your eyes bug out.

You look awfully silly, little dear,

with all the life squeezed out of you.

The blood is the life, Mister Renfield.

Blood is filth.

I am the filthiest person undead.

You seem to be wondering if the filth killed you!

Live a life of sin, face death with a hard-on.

Sorry--face death head on. Unsatisfied.

But I'll be kind, and let you ruin my pants as the last glimmer of light leaves your eyes.

Don't worry, little creature--

I always tip my queens.

I have never found a metaphor that

satisfies me. I have never eaten a

pomegranate that filled me.

What was Persephone on?

I move between worlds in shifts, your turn

and mine. Demeter doesn't keep track.

I've spilled the cup of life all down my front

and nobody even offered me a napkin!

How am I supposed to bathe in the

fountain of youth,

covered in blood and cum?

How am I supposed to be anybody when

there's too much me?