WILLY BLOOD
"Good evening.
They say my name is Willy Blood.
They say too, that is, my enemies say, and now of course, my family says, and come to think of it, here at the end of now, every royal cunt I know, says; that I am a vampire. That is bollocks. Never was true. At least an exaggeration. At most a hideous misinformation. A nonsense. Though, candidly, I may mention, that... I like the taste of ladies. They like it when I taste them. Where's the evil there? Their busy-body tampon-scrutinizing mummies and daddies may not like it; spying husbands, mother-fucking lovers neither. Their fathers, the gits, the slappers, macho piss-proud twankers, pimps, prudes and preachers, wanna run me down, string me up, drive me through. Well, suck 'em. Damn them all to bits. His lordship, the God's arse truth is: they love me to the core - every last bugger of 'em - in their ways. Needs me like a villian, a simpleton to stone. The lot of 'em; worse than I ever was. Suck 'em all!
The lassies are perky, before they go down. Yes, yes, they are. They say so themselves, heart-mad and horny, crude as young nuns; midst their ailings, their revolting prayers. If the lass gets sick, its from love for me! Me, the pervert! Unstoppable bender of wills! The stretcher of minds, the teaser of limbs; weaker, whiter, deader than mine. Yet, I be the Saviour of lives like no other. And they know it.
They love me for it.
And all the while the blood thirst crawls about me like a day-drunk ghost. Maggots aside! More than the lust for a cigarette. Till the town bells toll again, on the verge of your gangrenous city; beneath this, beneath MY animal moon. Tolls, the bells, dragging me into the nape of a naked neck, pale under plasticized diamonds, a wicked curve, cold on the touch like last years ham, with all its hidden, porous stinks; and a woman... a midwife... a wench... some bitch.. comes sniff me out! They sniff me out themselves, they do. Track me down, when they reckon they're ripe (and they always are)... Until I find them, and, deciding they are mine, according to their plan; I suck them not quite dry.
They all understand, the spineless losers: they deserve and they get, and this in my defence, as if I need one, cunts; ...nothing they did not wish for, nor deserve. They get it in the neck, they do. They do! That petty, tasteless, timeless thrill keeps 'em happy for a second, for a while. Whilst I, the poor martyr, father of nothing but flesh-wise joy like life; I get it in the neck, myself, I do: like a bout of painless shame, around the midday after.
I have to concede; my conscious is horrid - yet bearable. My memory bleak - yet sharp. I choose to forget - or half forget - clawing the taste of them out of my head like a cancer; or a lover, far passed her sell-by date. The aftertaste inquest then plagues my brain, a little like remorse. The bloody details which do not wash off, turn me sick to the heart. I swear! Swear upon ANY religion! These bloody bloody details sicken my heart... they do... and... they waken the thirst.
You think me rough? Good good good. I can be cruder than you (though tact I find nicer):
God hurl Maria on the Cross!
Whip her there, dainty witch!
Bleed her there, sobbing bitch!
Drink her tears of blood and
Leave her a-danglin'
Flaunting cold dead love
Deader than He
Till darkness breaks
Till, bored with the others
I pitter-patter down with the insects and the moon.
MY moon.
Graceful as Hell.
To savour her.
And ALL her children.
Maria! You love me! I know you do! We wrote it in black fluids on your sick-bed! Now prove it!"
(Unfinished)
