Archive for the ‘Vampires’ Category


Steam Punk, Vampires, and a Little Rat Dog

June 23, 2010

Familiar with Steam Punk? If not, it’s lots of fun — the music, the outfits, the mindsets. If you care, my favorite band from that genre is Abney Park, (current) favorite song of theirs’ is “Victoria”  — so pretty, so poignant — it’s a like a little movie. Give it a listen.  For something more hardcore, listen to “The Wake.” And if you really want to hear something wild, check out their version of  “Little Drummer Boy”  — so very, very different, you’ll forget it’s a Christmas song.

Four pieces of Steam Punk jewelry I made last Spring, crafted from analog watch parts, a cannibalized typewriter, and tiny miscellaneous electronic bits:

If ever there was music to put you in the mood for a good vampire romance/soap opera/epic storyline, it’s Rasputina. They have some dark-mood inducing covers (“Transylvanian Concubine” and “Wish You Were Here,” for starters). Here’s a pic to help set a vampiric atmosphere:

How about something for bad dreams?

But, hey, let’s lighten things up a bit, because it is vacation time (!) after all:

This ratter is the star of his own series of video shorts — if you’re interested, watch them here.

Adios, amigos.  See you in a few weeks.


Details Details Details

June 22, 2010

Tucson Botanical Gardens: You might be thinking, why go look at a bunch of brutal cacti in all this heat and dust? How about because the detail inherent in such things, in such places, is wonderful upon closer examination. Case in point, here are a few close-ups:

A saguaro:

Pavers beneath your feet:


A silver cistern against a blue sky:

A psychedelic succulent:

In Vampire News (via TMZ, natch): Xander Harris gets probation for assaulting a cop last Spring! Maybe Willow worked her good-witch magik on the authorities. Maybe Xander should be banned from The Bronze for a while.

No Xanders Allowed.

Oh look, more party hats:


All Apologies

May 15, 2010

I’m all apologies this afternoon — recently discovered it wasn’t Joss Whedon who put an end to the “Once More with Feeling” sing-a-longs, but 20th Century Fox (via Wikipedia):

“In October 2007, after a dispute with SAG over unpaid residuals, 20th Century Fox pulled the licensing for public screenings of Once More With Feeling, effectively ending official Buffy singalongs. . .”

Ah, nothing like a coterie of old dweebs in expensive suits to ruin a good party.

Well, here’s the fourth of five Spikes:

An image which makes me think of Abney Park’s “Stigmata Martyr” — if you don’t know the song, listen to it there. A steam punk band with a belly dancing member — can’t beat that with a stick.  (what?)

And now for a completely unapologetic poem:


In the Garden of Moonflowers

This is the time to linger,
when the heart like an overripe plum
is full to bursting:
twilight in early Spring;
the white flowers in the garden
with their phosphorous radiance,
the warm air lapsing into coolness.
Welcome, fleeting kingdom!  A gentle fiefdom
existing between the reign of the sun
and the domain of the stars.

This, too, is the time
to most dread, the interval
clocks cannot keep;
an intermission in the play
for looking behind
our gilded mirrors.
In this hour I cannot close
the eyes of my soul,
yet I cannot look away.
All things assault the senses;
I cannot bear such sentience:
the coolness of water on my fingertips,
the lilt of birds hidden
in the shadow-laced limbs of trees,
the murderous stab of memory.

I was driven into myself
like a dog beaten into viciousness:
I bared my teeth and raged
at the end of a choking chain
against the towering trompe l’oeil
who wielded the whip.
In my heart I have known his murder,
and the freedom such a death brings;
not for him —
his soul will fall to the frigid depths
and an anchor loosed at sea —
but freedom for the one
who wields the knife: a sigh released
as when a treacherous bridge is crossed,
the rapture as one unearths the ancient
jewel-encrusted dream
of beginning life anew.

But like this lavender twilight,
our dreams are just thus,
and quick to elude us
in noon’s practical light.
In the intimate embrace
of this evening’s air, I’ll wait,
choosing my dream
like a primitive
selecting the slender limb
to shape into the sleekest spear.
I will whittle my reserve
into a most pointed and deadly device;
and when the nightbirds take wing,
I will hurl my well-worked dream
with a savage’s sure aim
into his slumbering, unguarded heart.

This, then, is the time to linger.
The air is most sweet
between breaths.
is out of my hands,
like a hawk released from the hunter.
The decision has been made.
Astronomy is a science
of ignorance:
the world turns not
of its own volition,
but under the impetus
of average men
driven to great feats
of madness.
But look —
how the flowers open to the night!


(Published in Illumen, Autumn 2009)


In the Mood for Vamps

May 12, 2010

Been listening to the “Once More with Feeling soundtrack again (obsessively); so much fun to sing along to! Especially in the car, in traffic. Alone. We went to the Buffy Sing-A-Long at the Loft Cinema a few years ago — yowza, such fun! (My husband gave me both the CD and the tickets to the Sing-A-Long — he’s the most wonderful man I know!). Goody bags and costumed folk and everyone singing! A splediferious event, indeed. I was hoping to go every year, but . . . Joss Whedon has since put the kibosh on those Sing-a-Longs.   Sad Face : (

Now I’m doubly glad we went.

I still have my goody bag.

So I’m in the mood for vamps these days (surprise, surprise). Here’s another vampire poem, a love poem, of sorts:

The Kiss

Help me drive these iron stakes
into the unyielding earth, help me unroll
coils of spiked wire
across arrowed heads,
help me keep the woods at bay.

In the shadows of trees,
they move like natural things,
graceful and fleeting,
their brassy eyes lanterns swaying
in a windless night.

We move inside the house, feeling the locks
on doors and windows, leaving
garlands of prayers,
building great smoky fires
to obliterate the stars.

Through a broken mirror
one has entered
among us. I touch my own vein.
I will lean into your shadow
for this kiss.


(originally appeared in Dreams &  Nightmares, December 1994, No.34)


Below is the third in my series of five Spikes:

And here’s a pic of my grapevine winding its way around my yard:

Isn’t it romantic?


Because You Never Know Where You’ll End Up

May 9, 2010

“Half the fun of the travel is the aesthetic of lostness.” —Ray Bradbury

“When was the Last Time You Slept in a Wigwam?” Actual sign outside the Wigwam Motel on Route 66 in Holbrook, AZ. We didn’t spend the night, but we did take pictures. Wish we’d gotten to see the inside of one of these ‘wams.

I swear,  Arizona has one of the bluest skies in all creation.
And now for something completely different:



your        voice the tip of a knife tracing a line
from navel to sternum        your voice
the witchcraft binding the mischief
of self-sworn spells

your voice        the faint wail of pipes
wandering beneath the wind        your voice
the luminous soul spiraling
out of a dying kiss        your voice

reaching through the cage daring
to pet the rabid heart
your voice        the sigh of an angel sinking
one sword through two sinners        your voice


(first appeared in Black Hammock Review, Spring 1999, No.8)


‘Cuz It’s the Mood

May 5, 2010

Cuz’ a body can only take so much vacuous politicking & seriously evil  bomb-scaring (coming through the rye — if you don’t get it, look it up — pace Burns & Salinger).  Anyway, here’s an old vampire poem (first published in my graduate creative-writing thesis, then revised for  The Midwest Quarterly):


The Doctor’s Diagnosis

The flutter in her lungs
is not pneumonia;
it is constrained wings beating
against the soft membrane
of her self-restraint.
Put your ear to her breast
and listen:
the frantic cries of her chained desires
echo down through the shadowy cave
of her dreams.

You say that she is at peace
in the dank solitude of the local cathedral,
that there she drinks holy water
to purge herself of this
heaviness in her chest.

Her priest is concerned;
he sends her prayers
steeped in garlic
and rosaries carved out of saints’ relics.

But the illness continues.

Tonight, I prescribe you dress her
in black lace
and tie her to the bed.
Keep her mouth open,
propped with wet stones;
I will stand watch over her.

When the moon touches
her chalky throat, the bat will fly
through her mouth
and roost on the crucifix hanging
above her bed.

I have a gun.
I have done this before.


(Published in The Midwest Quarterly, Summer 1986, Vol.XXVII, No.4, as “The Diagnosis” — God Bless you, Stephen Meats)

Yikes. No wonder I didn’t get along so well with my thesis director! Anyhoo, I think this piece below goes nicely with it (first of a series of five):

(make a nice T-shirt, too. What do you think?)

To make it all better, here’s a pic of our resident bongo-boy:



November 18, 2009


don’t know what
he is or wants

kissing me in the dark
warm soft intrusive

tongue hands breath
the skin across his jaw

taut rough gritty
I know him

from highways dreaming straight
across the semi-

desert night no streetlights
no gas stations no diners

only owls and coyotes
guarding their mesa

watching his lone car
headlights like twin comets

hurrying through their heaven
coyotes wail and the moon

rises and the owls
take wing