Vampires

Last summer in an orgy of trashy novels
I read ALL the Anne Rice vampire chronicles.
One disheveled secondhand
paperback copy after another.

I'm secretly amused by the similarities I find.
I could be in one of those books,
rising from my lavish coffin
as the sky turns shades of midnight blue, burgundy, granite.
(Vampires see very well in the dark according to Ms Rice)
dressed slightly over the top,
off to taste the delicacies of the night.

None of her vampires dance tango,
but they should.
They would understand the soul-wail of the bandoneon
and the mourning of Gardel over his lost city and loves.
The rage and rebellion of Pugliese and Piazolla
crashing over their critics and jailors,
Eternal outsiders all.

Their bodies crave only the sweet blood of their victims,
a facsimile of passion from their past human life.
As wanton in their desire as any human
seeking intercourse of the usual kind.
They drink in the memories of their prey
with the blood.