The fact is you never stop being Dracula.
That’s the nub of the matter, the dirty little secret as locked within the
heart of most pornographic films of that nature, of that subject matter. No
amount of sequential throbbing will change the state of your teeth, you’ll
never once see the glisten go away or the yellow enamel take over because
fictional myth and all its hermetic structure will just not allow it. Something
to do with Giant Vampires and the causeways they build by dropping a few
splashes of buffered blood. Everybody leans on the training mats as if children
weren’t as ebullient as they should be, according to the scripture of Nought to
Zero. I doubt that a serf will have read it, any of your serfs that is. The
moment’s passed and the sex has been had.
You put spines out of places,
out of sweaty back plastic caverns are struck by time in its mouldy bottle of
vinegar, formerly fingers. Cut out the sound like a former schoolboy turned
spy, just let it die away into folded concertina petals. The bopping goes along
with the choreography, the hip flask an extra accessory for the rich and
retired. Honey makes me restless and unkind towards weightless environments
filled with encephalitis and gangrene. When I was down, she was there from the
start nosing that nobody from your past and my conjoined twin’s present. She’s
going to break hearts like a limp wrist on a Sunday morning. I do the breaking
around these premises. Whatever you do, stay alert and askance before the lady
of the house notices the emblem that you wear around your chest and neck and
vest. She’ll give you all from her box of boring breaded nuggets. Roderick has
no part in this, just Neil and his motley crew of All-hearts.
Excuse me with cold consideration, shape
it into a stake and whittle off the tough bits with your unholy toothy pegs.
Presenting the end of today isn't quite as stirring as establishing that
tomorrow will never come and that yesterday is merely figurative. The chimes of
Transylvania are burrowing into your immortal soles, rising up through your
shaky anklebones to become one with the entire mechanism that is your greasy,
groaning body. So much white corrective fluid in the space between your
nipples, the triangle with your chin. It's not particularly artistic, just a
plain actor's role as a busybody with his first name and lazy eye. Romance does
enough to make you float around like a demon from hell, it sends you on errands
with broken bicycles and tidies away all compartmentalised fishing simulators
that might show your essence like a glow stick in a meadow.
It's not really about business, being
Dracula, it's about knowing where to cut off relations without offending too
many people. Beauty doesn't like to be spurned or scorned or slapped in the
tickle spots; it just wants to be wrinkled by a quick pat down on the back of
some loser's bus.
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