Bloodsucking

There are so many things one would like to change, some people one wished one had never met, there are some who suck all the life out of you.

The Vampire

You who, like the stab of a knife,
Entered my plaintive heart;
You who, strong as a herd
Of demons, came, ardent and adorned,

To make your bed and your domain
Of my humiliated mind
— Infamous bitch to whom I'm bound
Like the convict to his chain,

Like the stubborn gambler to the game,
Like the drunkard to his wine,
Like the maggots to the corpse,
— Accurst, accurst be you!

I begged the swift poniard
To gain for me my liberty,
I asked perfidious poison
To give aid to my cowardice.

Alas! both poison and the knife
Contemptuously said to me:
"You do not deserve to be freed
From your accursed slavery,

Fool! — if from her domination
Our efforts could deliver you,
Your kisses would resuscitate
The cadaver of your vampire!"

Baudelaire

Love poem

Don't know why this came into my head, but I remembered a poem I once read by Ginsberg, it was, in its own way, a beautiful love poem.


Love Poem on Theme by Whitman


I'll go into the bedroom silently and lie down between the bridgegroom and
the bride,
those bodies fallen from heaven stretched out waiting naked and restless,
arms resting over their eyes in the darkness,
bury my face in their shoulders and breasts, breathing their skin,
and stroke and kiss neck and mouth and make back be open and known,
legs raised up crook'd to recieve, cock in the darkness driven tormented and
attacking
roused up from hole to itching head,
bodies locked shuddering naked, hot hips and bottocks screwed into each
other
and eyes, eyes glinting and charming, widening into looks and abandon,
moans of movement, voices, hands in air, hands between thighs,
hands in moisture on softened hips, throbbing contraction of bellies
till the white come flow in the swirling sheets,
and the bride cry for forgiveness, and the groom be covered with tears of
passion and compassion,
and I rise up from the bed replenished with last intimate gestures and kisses
of farewell -
all before the mind wakes, behind shades and closed doors in a darkened
house
where the inhabitants roam unsatisfied in the night,
nude ghosts seeking each other out in the silence.

Allen Ginsberg