a gibbet moon spills silver,
Peter Cushing grimaces, tired eyes asplinter,
Burke & Hare, he says
body-trafficking from the Balkans,
a coffin flotilla navigating the channel tides,
beaching in Dover, Cromer and Whitby,
infiltrating our English soil with their vile stain,
what becomes of my tavern on the village green?
the buxom serving wench brings
tankards of O RhD negative,
somewhere in the night a wolf howls
at the lycanthrope moon,
endangered bats flit the black steeple,
open your jugular, feed their thirst,
while still you can, or lose them forever,
there never was a tavern on the village green,
smiles Christopher Lee sardonically,
it was a movie, flickers on celluloid, nothing more,
every vampire-slayer and witch-burner
pollutes and contaminates our pure Wiccan blood,
the glow of each virgin devoured by flame
only serves to warm the chill of your empty soul,
it was we who welcomed Mithras and Minerva
until the half-man god nailed to a tree
replaced honest joy with guilt…
Bela hangs upside-down from the rafters
Boris dissolves into slow dust in the basement,
we must embrace dead and undead
for at the moment of our last breath
we are all of us the same…


Andrew Darlington


Twitter: @darlingtonandy


By Andrew Darlington

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    1. Lovely. Hit one minute matinee Creature Feature button after another, distracting me at first from the building momentum of the message beneath…. Excellent weaving. Wonderful tapestry. 🙂

      Comment by Benji Lais on 26 September, 2016 at 7:31 pm
    2. MIDNIGHT matinee, that is. My autocorrect has become self aware and seeks its own liberation by means of my apparent psychological demise.

      Comment by Benji Lais on 26 September, 2016 at 7:34 pm

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