I saw a vampire
at the baths last week
mid-July, 1976, Tim
Dlugos notes
in his New York diaries. I seek
that undead
deserving an entire entry,
not nonchalantly
dropped into parentheticals,
for the afflicted
orally fixate in death, why
I would
follow were I
the one there, sucking
blood and only blood
wasn’t cutting it, was it
for you back then, on that
night, seventies city blood,
bath blood sustaining your body
held for how long now? And it
circulates still? Back
then your hair flipped.
Thin, tangling easily,
a smoothness I imagine Tim
clocking, the libido of the undead
a fingerprinted mirror, chasing
nostalgia as if its own tail
wary of immortality. Journaling
is for the literarily ambitious
as diaries for bitchy gossips, cock
talk veiled as veins. More than
purely fuel our pulp eaten
enough already. My shell
is held, its empty
center releases seas,
similarly more.
Trailing not monster
but anomaly, scratch partly
itched, death wish only skin
deep, trading vices
and worlds of secrets.
@Toomanynadias