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deepundergroundpoetry.com

Monster porn

I wondered which of us was the monster        
as I perused titles on my digital shelf.        
       
A couple hundred years ago when        
Lord Byron stole “The Vampyre”        
and Mary Shelly anonymously published “Frankenstein”        
and Brahm Stoker put out “Dracula”        
women everywhere crossed their legs        
and touched themselves under 27 layers of clothing.        
      
Those are exquisite literary pieces,        
steeped in beautiful language        
featuring mortals with chasm-like depths,        
     
and the moral of the story is:      
that lust is all-consuming,      
and that we become what        
we lust after.        
       
(the romance of that premise      
is fucking insane when you        
really roll around in it.)        
       
Fortunately, I am not such an erudite scholar.        
Fuck the romance.        
Bring on the dick!        
       
I get off on porn disguised as        
women’s fiction.        
Vampires, succubi, demons, and stalkers.        
The pervier the better.        
       
And it’s probably because I’m a        
fucking degenerate.        
But I like that trope:        
Big. Powerful. Entity.        
Something she can’t        
fight, and she’s        
such a tough girl,        
and she tries,        
fuck she tries,        
but it chases her        
it craves her and        
she valiantly resists until        
       
she can’t resist any more.        
(sigh)          
       
But at the end,        
if the monster needs her blood        
she’ll open the vein herself        
       
because she fell for the monster        
when it finally caught her.    
       
       
I couldn’t figure out        
which of us was the monster.        
       
So I tittered and fingered myself        
thinking of how big        
and strong        
and sexy you are        
and how much I like        
it when you chase me.        
       
How powerless I am        
when you pin me to the wall        
and growl that        
you want me.        
       
But that’s too obvious.        
       
Monsters are hot because        
they need to consume you to exist;        
because you are so fucking vital        
that its a preternatural need,        
black magic        
and deals with the devil,        
shit that humans        
can’t do with their        
bills and their deadlines        
and their goddamn droll lives.        
       
I play a superficial little twit        
on the surface with my        
bang-bang, cum shot books,    
but my mouth waters    
at the literature in your pockets      
that I read through the holes        
I clawed in your pants…        
       
You.        
       
Baby.        
       
are the blood and water in my veins        
and I’m a dessicated desert mummy        
doomed to chase you for the        
animation spell        
       
you are plasma in my skin        
that I need to sink        
sharp fangs of need in        
to feel alive;        
alive;        
and the feeling fades        
as soon as you retreat to daylight        
while I stare at the walls of my coffin        
and shriek        
dead        
against sure madness        
       
I need you.        
I need to consume you        
I need you to survive another day        
like blood in my mouth        
or a heartbeat in my empty chest        
       
I need to taste your mortality        
when my tongue flicks        
against your teeth        
and lower        
       
and fuck        
       
I would hunt you,        
haunt you,        
chase you across the world        
and nail you          
on a sacrificial table        
just to slit your        
soul into my hungry chalice        
       
and when I drink        
       
it wouldn’t be enough.        
       
It would never be enough.        
       
And it’s not enough        
as I crawl over your body,        
black lace and red lips        
ready to take        
everything you        
don’t have to give        
until your toes curl        
and you sag against the bed        
strands of my hair        
in your clenched fist,        
       
and even though at the end,        
I’m the fallen one        
       
I no longer        
wonder which        
of us        
is the        
       
monster        
 
Written by Betty
Published | Edited 20th May 2024
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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