I want to write a vampire story
but what is left to say?
What could one more iteration of a premise
even as poignant as eternal thirst
contribute to the ambient hum of b-movie plots
and abstinence parables behind it?
Its ubiquity is a true shame, the vampire story,
for who has not known
the tragedy of unyielding desire?
Who among us
doesn’t crave an alter-ego through which to explore
those dark thirsts that drive us through object after object
in pursuit of something ineffable, which recedes
even as the horizon recedes?
Surely here’s a subject
Aristotle himself could unzip his pants to.
But our thirst, it seems,
has moved beyond vampirism; our fangs
retracted from a victim long since drained-
cast aside with all the other clichés
we’ve grown tired of hearing: love’s first kiss,
stories with sunsets, knights and happily-ever-afters.
And as I sit my weary heart down before this blank screen
I pause to wonder: just when did life get
so goddamn sweet?
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