Werewolf Sonnets, Vampire Limericks, and Zombie Haiku

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.

Too Many Fangs

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

Party Tricks

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

The Collector

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

Kindness

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

The Heart Breaker

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.

Professional Cross Training

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…”

Unsafe Descents

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

Ravenous

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.

Blood Money

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