We Need a New Word for Vampire

Junk monkeys with leather whips

Bearing a new crucifix

No more worries 'bout impotence

When sex means to devour

Accidental elegance of fate

Minus some extra water weight

This new hunger has the taste

Of never laughing freely

And Jesus with his puncture wounds

And fingers stretched like on a loom

The tales among the tall weeds grew

The killer is the martyr

And all the iron butterflies

They sit around the fireside

Learning to evolve the night

Under a lava-moon

Stumbling down the lost highway

Groaning trees exalt your sway

With crimson chins, no time to pray

Racing with the morning star