By You Thus His Vampire Poem by James McLain

by you thus his vampire
and he would
do things too you
things you think you want him too do
to you,
whimper things
that moan as if the wind, there is none of
fast asleep
sleeping fast in breath and you he sees
and he would take each out
hefting them too weigh each one
each their time
like full melons the farmers wife he would
inspecting them
making sure there is no yellow crust beneath
gently squeezing each until
blue veins run spider webs off around
like a map of the world
but made of blood
aureoles rich and pink
picking that one of which is not always closest to the heart
nipping the tips
until and gently like smoke and shadows
by you thus my vampire
his finger growing in each ear like snakes expanding
the tongue a soft warm tree
made up of naught but miles of scaly trunk
and the tearing through to the heart of the rose
and the belly moving as if in life it never could
as heavy
the lighter beast is tucked back in safe and warm
inside it's cup made of white china
as the other is lifted slowly up
and turned upon it's end
and slowly drained
becoming as the color ash now grey
shriveling to look as if and now of what it has become
another warm empty bucket
made of skin
never to know thy pleasure of it's maker, red the wine.