Death at Play

Death waits in the wings,

In the mortal scented shadows –

It is the voracious lunge

Sinking venom-steeped fangs

Into butter-soft flesh,

Breeching the jugular river

To release the wine.

It is the night’s brethren

Playing with the humans

Like wolves amid the flock.

Tonight there will be blood

As each receives the vampire’s kiss

In a violent display of affection

Parting life essence from living flesh,

Drawing out the aged alcohol

In arms vice-like, crushing and cruel.

Tonight the dead dance in the dark,

Red ribbons trailing from their throats

While Death lounges sated

Licking up all traces of their deeds,

Drunkenly humming the song of eternal sleep.

I'd like to think this poem was written for the likes of Louis and Lestat of Interview with the Vampire <3 <3

Night Walk

It was a cool dry evening; the kind which made me feel I could walk for miles in it: but I had a bus to catch. 
A spider collected its day's victims on the bus stop pole as I waited for my ride to draw into view. 
Alighting, I took my usual seat, finding it to be the only one without a functioning overhead strip fluorescent; the mild seclusion of the half-light suited me. 
As the bus drove nearer town, the late evening traffic slowed us to a crawl, softening every bump in the road to a gentle rock. At this speed I was free to people-watch, to pry into a second of their lives unbeknownst to them. 
When I finally arrived at my stop, I uttered a soft 'thank you' to the driver before stepping out into the faintest drizzle of rain. I wove through homeward bound city workers to pass beneath the bridge 
over which a departing train was piping and clattering; the sound secretly thrilled me. 
Once clear of the bridge, the drizzle began to cling to my hair in beads, reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights as I climbed the hill. In a small side- street, the glare and chaos of the main road began to fade, leaving me to trudge through shadows alone until I reached my destination. 
Distantly, the hollow screech and whistle of the trains below was still audible, but that was all.

All Nighter

That first touch lit a spark
Which fuelled the all-nighter,
Opening up a seemingly endless stretch of hours
In which we became what we wanted
And learnt what we could.
Sleep would be for the dispassionate
At the cost of crashing and burning by midday
If only we could own the night
As close to each other as we would like;
One touch of the lips
Revealed our tired hallucinations
To be the sweetest sort of reality.