I am the bastard saint of torment
and the devil hangs from my brow
as a taunting monkey
swinging in perverse pleasure
like the hangman�s noose in a zephyr
It soils the water and
fouls the air with the musk of decay
and ancient books
I write
while you sleep your sleep
for if I try to follow you
into that crust of rapid eye movement
behind lids pulled down like window shades
I twist and writhe
in the dark with restless legs
and a pounding heart
Words trickle down my arm
alive and wet and a part of me
They spill onto the page
to become dark and dry sentences
stanzas no longer alive
yet read aloud to the living
I write this story in blood
The tale of a silver blade
and tablets
a vampire carnival
of darkness and voices
improbable dreams
and ambient screams
From behind a black door
If you knock you must come in