Perry Thompson

Our Vampire Lives

I shall snatch away the honey of thy
Breathing, the sweetness of thy repose.
Red portions anesthetize hunger.

I shall leave thee without the calm
Of death upon thy heart, but seeking
Shadow, lean darkness
And a weather of moonlight.

Not a Love Poem for Ginger

This is not a love poem for Ginger.
This is a story of our partnership.

Our business is lust.
I lust for her,
she lusts for my money.

I always tip her in advance even after she
tells me it's $35 per session.  She should
know by now I know it's $35 per session.

I give her $50 saying I know she'll earn it
and she never smiles at me for this and always
asks for more half way through.

I ask her to humiliate
herself for my pleasure and she does.
It's not painful what I ask -- I want
to see a part of her that not many
want to see and she displays
it using her hands as I have asked.
I say,' Move the fingers closer together
and pull just a little harder if it doesn't hurt.'
She says 'Can you give me more persuasion?'
And I do.  At least $20 more.

I must service myself
she says while she poses.  I look
at the desired part and I
understand.
Beauty is a terrible thing
for the beautiful and for the looker.
I look and look.

Though I want to tell you I know,
I'm not sure I know the difference
between loveliness and horror.
I watch her face in the mirror
as she exposes herself.  She is
completely without expression.

Ginger has thoughtfully provided kleenex
and there's a tiny white plastic
trash can for the soiled tissue.
The trash is always empty
when we first come into the room.

An ugly room it is.  I ask her to turn
up the lights so I can see her better
and turn down the music.  She says
she can't turn the music off because
the tape is timed to our session.

When the tape's over, so are we.
It's dance music and she wants
to move with it.  I tell her to be still
and use her hands as I've instructed.

Our time is over in 8 minutes though a session
lasts 15.

She makes small talk while we dress.  'Thanks
for the shirt,' she says.  'It fits perfectly.'

She says goodbye to me at the door
(it reads PLEASE KNOCK)
and tells
me her hours for the coming week.
Her hours never change.
I know them by heart.
The pentameter moon grins at me
as I walk to my car.

Let's don't make this what it's not.
I don't think of her often, really.
In dreams I sometimes see her hands
doing their miracle over and over.
That's all.  No big deal.

No Goddamn big motherfucking deal.