Bella Lugosi Blues

 

Confessing my many horrors

I, the undead, thaw

 

To zombie and stare down

The sun directly with a

 

Diseased eye caught

During the dead of moon.

 

Salvation?

No.  More like

 

Penance, with no chance

Of parole,

 

Sentenced to blindness

In my typecast paradise,

 

Just when my obsession

Activated existence had

 

Tired of blood and

Begun to calm. 

 

 

 

 

 

Early Bird Special

 

 

 I lay flat on my past and present, composed,

Yearning for the formality of decomposition.

           

My hands or appropriately folded, cradling my

future inconsistencies, fossil dreams and all.

 

I am satisfied my id has eaten my ego and will

Comfortably rest forever on a full stomach.

 

I am the early bird with no appetite waiting for

My promised worm. He is late or so I think.

 

Perhaps he is here, masking as translucent time

Inching closer, working up a hunger.