“Dracula, Dancing”

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

If I put a dagger to my head

And quoted a Bram Stoker manuscript

Like a stale breath from a forgotten crypt

“To die, to be really dead, that must be glorious!”

Would you consider it to be an act, laborious

Or simply know that I was stuck, in a moment of woe

Like a child who stubbed their toe

Playing kickball in the yard

I would hope that my impulsive plea

Could resound without evoking an emergency

One that opens doors I would prefer

To deny and defer

But I realize that to speak this thing aloud

Witnessed by a neighborhood full of watchful eyes

And ears lusting after an echoing prize

Might be seen as a desperate act

A dance along the concrete wall, creviced and cracked

While dressed in the garb of a count

Long separated from his horse and mount

Yet still able to ride

I will admit this much, in a moment of clarity

That to say what I think is a tragic rarity

But a habit inspired by what I learned

As a pupil, studiously reciting the terms

Of schoolhouse imprisonment

In a carnival tent

Not permitted to contribute my own two cents

When that sum was not requested

This matter has been tried, and tested

And in the aftermath, judged accordingly

So, when I experience a slide into the emotional deep

And wander in a wilderness that causes me to weep

I hope you will forgive

That misstep on path to gather and give

Freely, of myself

Conscious and checking the status of intellectual wealth

Stored among cobwebs, in my brain

In time, I will visit those treasures that remain

But for now, I offer no more

Than a tally of the tendencies, heretofore

Tucked away in a shadow lair

In a broom closet, under the stairs

This festive shuffling of feet in time

Is a celebration of one meaningful line

From a book I read, long ago

Not a sworn statement, sealed with tallow

If I meet the candle with a forceful snuff

With a cupped appliance, inverted and abrupt

No, I do not wish to cause alarm

With this winking supposition of doing great harm

In a poetic context, written in ink

Let it fall in the wastebasket, under my sink

Crumpled and illegible

A verse made negligible

By willful neglect

Let me high-step and turn on my spot

Safe in the knowledge that a jury of peers forgot

The meaning I wished to convey

A curse on the lips, quickly swept away

With a cough and a clearing of the throat

Monsters and men find immortality on the printed page

Yet for those made of flesh, a lesser cause is relayed

An excuse to be brief

Whistling through gaps in between their teeth

With a sense of dismay

That sign will be enough, I proclaim

Do not rise to the target, and take aim

When I utter that message, from the parchment of old

When I bare the patchwork nature, of my eternal soul

Let it be no more than flash of lightning against the black

Look to the heavens, and relax

The dagger is dull