They say you came from a low stock
that you are not of the right breed
Well, I was bred from the bakery of Masters
The kind who employed the skills of Gods
to serve the best meal
that every human soul could relish
These men of the dough were deities in their own right
Then, I emerged a hot-headed bundle of scorn
ready to devour my prospective eaters or suitors as I turn to call them
They are my romantic conquests
my bed of flowers
engaged in this write-play
I charm them with with glee and drinking ease
My imagination's brew
frothing at the edges of my mouth
is the sweet taste of
of what my imagination conjures
Therein I bite into their neck of the woods
a Vampire on a prowl
This blood ink still drips

Spoogy 2011