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Monday, August 30, 2010

Pennsylvania Vampire Song


Az Ének a Pennsylvania Vámpír

On a feed through Pennsylvania,
I felt a need for my old Transylvania.
I'm Hungarian now of Czech descent, . . .
It matters not, where my pedigrees went.
To America I came after the war,
Fleeing death, and butchery I abhor.

I feel I owe some transcription here,
Of life abroad, since I turned vampir.
An ache for blood, a thirst for souls,
Makes my curse, much worse than coal.

I'll hunt again, these poems I'll haunt,
So many penned, yet forever gaunt.
Where legions of brave mortals go,
Like me now, lie forever cold.
Who once lived, their souls are stained,
By my lust for fluids, stolen and drained.

Was there a battle I ever won?
Victorious vampires, at bloody Bull Run.
A lover tonight sings a randy tune,
Then dies of fright, 'neath a Brandywine moon.

After the harvest, I follow'd a wake.
My food was blessed by souls I'd take.
On a Presbyterian, I'll soon nurse,
Then swoon her riverside funeral hearse.

From poor Antietam's hallowed ground,
An old soldier bled in Gettysburg town.
The slightest count of lives I've gored,
Crows over that frightful Civil War.

Where Lake Eirie's watery basin ends,
I took a mason's daughter named Jenn.
The next night, giving thanks for fun,
I dropped with fright, then drank her son.
And by the gorgeous Lackawana,
I fanged a lanky gal, named Joanna.

How I yearn for my damp bed in Most,
Where long lies buried my old Czech ghost,
To my home cellar dark and wet,
I won’t go there, at least not yet.
I long to sleep a thousand years,
How I've wept such poisonous tears!

I have mines to visit, shafts of coal,
Towns to blacken, with my cursed soul.
To roam the rainy Allegheny nights,
And see what plain poetry can fright.
Hungry, thirsty, starved for more,
I can't be saved, except by metaphor.

My words are pale, I've drained them all,
By my wolfen howl, and coyote call.
Alas I forage for inspired verse,
Pages dying from my curse.

My wit is sharp, I have teeth like knives,
I can't stop feeding upon these lives.
The tragedy is, I can't drink enough,
Words like me, and I like words, . . . like love.
Through restless hills, on an endless trek,
I caress my fill, from thighs and neck.

Banded trout run on Northkill Creek,
I caught a freckled young one just this week.
Or Schuylkill's waves burst the Delaware,
My depraved thrill is your worst nightmare.
The swift Susquehanna floods at peak,
I'll shape shift my blood, towards the Chesapeake.

Nighttime comes, my heartbeat soars,
Frightening doom with backstreet roars.
I hope and pray I find a cure from God,
But as night turns day, it ends in sod.
Come rosy dawn, I slink to my berth,
Cozy anon, in stinking earth.

To toss and dream with bowels aching,
Or howl and scream at my future staking.
The way to hunt me is to offer a feast,
Of words that stun me, my hope of peace.
But the touch of soil, my native mud,
Brings to boil, my lust for blood.

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