No… Well first of all, they’re not romatic. Its not like they’re a bunch of fuckin’ fags hoppin’ around in rented formal wear and seducing everybody in sight with cheesy Euro-trash accents, all right? Forget whatever you’ve seen in the movies: they don’t turn into bats, crosses don’t work. Garlic? You wanna try garlic? You could stand there with garlic around your neck and one of these buggers will bend you fucking over and take a walk up your strada-chocolata WHILE he’s suckin’ the blood outta your neck, all right? And they don’t sleep in coffins lined in taffata. You wanna kill one, you drive a wooden stake right through his fuckin’ heart. Sunlight turns ‘em into crispy critters.
Looking for cover in the fallout
The flower blooms of cluster bombs
The terror of our lives
The allure of disasters.
Spoiling for the rod and thankful for the scars
Anything to remember me by.
These kisses aren’t contracts
And the subtlety of locomotives
Pounding in my head
A one-eyed king
You can never run when you’re on your knees.
Difficult to see the forest for the trees.