Love and Horror

Daeira,
Uncover to me the sinister mysteries
Of your dark dominion.
Shroud us both in the devouring folds
Of your cimmerian mantle.

Your colorless visage, though more
Vacant than the ominous china dolls
That adorn your drab chambers,
Though less vivid than the chimeras

Standing sentinel at your bedside,
Inspire me beyond the rose gold cheeks
Of the most coveted starlet.

Your frigid touch, though more chilling
Than Stygian waters at blackest depth,
Ignites within me a white blaze
Hotter than Hades’ infernal pyre.

Your affinities are not the banal fancies
Of other women. What use have you
For trite romantic comedies but to induce
Eye-rolling and make you long for
Slumber’s welcome escape?

No—let it be a slasher film, with an
Extra dose of gore and mutilation,
To turn that stoic aspect into a
Perfect image of Thaline exuberance.

What use have you for fairy stories,
Nauseating tales of wide-eyed princesses
And their predictable melodramas, their
Inevitably bow-wrapped happy endings?

God forbid. Leave the glass slippers and
Prince Charmings to another.
It’s penny dreadful yarns of grisly
Beheadings, gruesome torture chambers,
And bloodcurdling mass murders

That have you curled at my side,
Purring softly, dreaming of diabolical
Specters while the sweetest smile of
Blissful innocence graces your lips.

Should an unknowing suitor arrive
Bearing gifts that would entice the feeble
Eyes of paltry females—earrings,
Necklaces, designer handbags—

His heart would collapse within him
At your cruel disinterest.
A cat o’ nine tails, a fresh guillotine,
A Judas chair, an iron maiden—

These are the playthings that make
You leap up and down and squeal
With delight like a child on
Christmas morning.

I know you,
And know the setting sun over a
White-sanded beach no more awakens
Your passions than drifting tumbleweed.

But an archaic graveyard bathed in a
Blood moon’s menacing light brings out
The hopeless romantic in you, leaving you
Shivering in anticipation despite yourself.

The anticipation
Of the haunting night music—fluttering bats’
Wings and the shrill caw of the fish crow—
More pleasing to your ears than symphonies
Or the mourning dove’s gentle coo.

The anticipation
Of being seduced by gnarled crown of thorns,
Whose unforgiving barbs gratify your eyes
Above the fair petals of magnolia in spring
And the gyrating cast of chrysanthemum.

The anticipation
Of being forced against a derelict tomb,
Spread sinuously upon the callous slab,
Hands bound, eyes veiled—
A willing sacrifice.

You squirm on the grim altar,
Agitated by the thrilling friction of
Cold flesh against cold stone,
Entranced by the overwhelming aura of death
As the Little Death violently takes you—

A living fantasy of love and horror.

Luis Miguel

Luis Miguel

Writer extraordinaire.
Luis Miguel

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