If the perfect poetical metaphor for a zombie is, as is popularly held, the haiku, what are the appropriate metaphors for werewolves and vampires?
Obviously, sonnets and limericks.
At enormous personal risk, I have collected these works from a wide array of supernatural sources, often at considerable danger to my own bodily and spiritual integrity.
(Actually, that last part isn’t true. I’ve been on their side since the beginning.)
Available now from Amazon.com is a (new!) wood pulp collection of my various poetry of this peculiar subgenre. Most of what is enclosed have been previously tweeted, WordPressed, or Facebooked, but there are a couple of new ones in there.
Plus, if you pick up a copy you will be the envy of your friends for having the absolute top tier of bathroom reading among all of your social circle.
I recall two strigoi in Rangoon
Who unwitting lured each other to a room
They spent almost all night
Over who had the right
To bare fangs and the other consume
I once knew this young lady from Heath
Who when dallying, her fangs would unsheathe
And the neck she’d forgo
In favor of below
Which she’d then circumcise with her teeth
Little Ben Brown bitten at seven,
Endlessly annoyed by policemen
Who thought him too youthful
At night to be able
But his badge collection is legend
I once knew a vampire named Joe
His fangs sadly lost on a dingo
So if you do see him
At the bar sad and grim
Kindly buy him a pint of Type O
I once knew a vampire from Racine
Who rigged up a blood-pumping machine
When she’d set it to start
It would blow out his heart
With a retort that was rather obscene.
Have you heard of the dentist Bridget,
Whose boyfriend a vamp made a banquet
When she captured the fiend
With drill over him leaned:
“I promise this won’t hurt but a bit…”
I once heard tell of a vamp from Kent
Who on the steps of the old convent
Was drinking down his fill
When they both took a spill
Now he’s two fangs short from the descent
The Maharani of Kerala,
(In truth a nosferatu from old Russia)
For Kashmir she set out
With a dozen good mahouts,
But by halfway she was gnawing on ulna.
An unscrupulous chef from Strömstad
On the side quite a business he plied –
His diners he would drug
And pack off with a thug
To be sold for all their blood stateside