Desire

     will it be like dying

     will I want you always

     under my skin

     will you come to me then

     come to me

     with your wasp heart enjoying

     rumbling your thirsty

     throaty thought

     he rums and hums

     grips with bat wings

     stomping, swaying

     savors the slow dance of sin

     agrunt with the hymn of the cloven hoof

               close your eyes he says

               you are not dreaming

               of rescue

               are you

               your heart feels like a plum

      tastes like salt

Disclaimer:  I didn’t write this.  Tracy Pinkham wrote this at the age of 26.   I discovered this relic of her in a box in the basement.  It seems to have been printed on one of those old dot matrix printers where the paper was fed into the machine in a long roll of detachable, perforated sheets attached to the mechanism via a series of small holes on either side of the paper, and the strips with the holes were perforated and detachable too, once you'd done printing and torn your sheet from the roll.  But the strips weren’t detached in this case, just folded back, evoking nostalgia; and the font was courier as I've rendered it, also nostalgic.  Remember that paper, that font? 

Hey there, scary nymphomaniac love-junkie vampire-demon-erotica girl.  Girl, what is up?  Long time no see.  Why are you such a lonely, disguised, needy, profane freak?  Shouldn’t someone put a stake right through your heart?   It seems you’ve been allowed to live after all.

Every time I go digging around in basement boxes, I lay hands on some bizarre creature.  Sometimes while I examine them, they open their eyes, like this girl; other times they don’t.