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from my current project - patchwork narrative
4 years ago

patchwork narrative - Churches FEB 3 · 2013


These myths about crosses, holy water, Christian artifacts,
are in some sense amusing.
Such short-sighted arrogance these Christians expose.
Our kind greatly predate The Christ.
I have been told that some still walk who worshipped
at the feet of our dark Lord’s bride.
Persephone, when she toured this world
would take succor from such acolytes
in Her secret night rites.
Children of the God of Death and Transformation,
we are born in intimate blood ritual.
We are damned with immortality to experience Hades
on Earth.

4 years ago
patchwork narrative - Anger
FEB 22

4 years ago

patchwork narrative - Service



Abjectly caught up in escape to greater power, 
was I compliant, emboldened to succumb 
to my deadly ascension? 
Did I dare to believe eternal damnation 
a better salvation than what I knew 
of religious life? 
I was but as always supplicant servant 
to my master, whatever master sought 
whatever service. 
There was no trade in compliance. 
If silently I questioned assignments 
based on strangeness, such wonderings 
would have long ceased to entertain. 
This master desired blood ritual. 
He chose to intoxicate with drug injection 
delivered in personal intimacy. 
I, as always, did as bidden. 
I did not expect the power. 
I did not fear the damnation. 
I expected, hoped to die, quietly. 
I had not agreed, nor desired, to be reborn 
as a monster. 
I did not understand what I had become. 
My sire teased me. 
He wanted an acolyte, a minion, a fawning 
admirer of his wit, charm, depravity. 
I listened to his boasting stories unmoved. 
When the hunger hit with such brutal clarity, 
slavering instinct, he rejoiced with callous stabs 
at camaraderie. He expected we would bond 
in the hunt, guru and chela. 
I had tasted blood in rituals, piously shared 
from a common cup the spoils of sacrifice. 
Almost zombie-like, bound servant, my consciousness 
separate from my acts, I did as I had been 
meticulously taught. I served, without luxury 
of opinion, without context in which to question. 
Appreciation, admiration, obsequious adoration 
had not been among that curriculum. Perhaps those 
inculcations would have come later, if I were so 
to be groomed. 
The vampire who captured me had not thought beyond 
the ease of acquisition. Perhaps it was my passivity 
that attracted him; yet his desire was for more active 
participation in his fantasy. 
I accepted his lead out of habit, stealthily into the night. 
We approached a tipsy companionship of two young men 
passing an alley as they headed out from partying. 
Certainly they expected robbery, and defense from their 
trusty revolvers. 
I was as surprised as they appeared when their bullets 
passed through me without comment. 
I think they were more surprised when we bodily attacked, 
took more precious fare than cash. 
Invigorated with fresh blood, devastated by rumination, 
the implications of what I had done, become, reeling 
between feeling so much better and so much worse, 
I began to imagine options. I began to approach understanding 
that I might become free of abject servitude to powerful masters, 
from that definition.

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