Death’s Discoteca

 

Clovis-Trouille-Mon-Tombeau
Clovis-Trouille-Mon-Tombeau

 

Soulless automaton,
pallid vampire,
with your amphetamine blush,
ceaseless opiated caresses
if only looks could melt.
Last of the gravers,
nodding away
at death’s discoteca
do you miss
that old morbid élan,
with real live girls,
packets of gear,
being the man,
making them wait?
You ain’t who you
used to be anymore,
hollowed out by the night,
spooked by a thousand insomnias,
an uncertain spectre
at the feast of the auto-cannibals:
paying the heavenly revenue service
the vig for deceiving syntax;
now every lying word turns to ash
within your pitted and parched mouth,
and every cruel intention,
conning misdirection
is now a stone within
your bloated stomach.
Pallid vampire,
soulless automaton,
time to open the curtains
and let the sunshine flood in.

25 thoughts on “Death’s Discoteca

  1. Splendidly morbid. Artfully creepy. Yet ends with a flood of sunshine. I imagine vampire disintegration with feverish music and then silence. And the artwork is a perfect companion piece. Bravo

    Liked by 2 people

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