Well, have you ever seen a male bloodsucker
holding a steady job for a time,
who'd bring home a weekly pay from a job,
say as a sales person (for the sake of argument),
then, tired as he is, proceed to
cook formula, change diapers and
play scrabble with junior?

This is why vampires are not born;
but rather, made by an incision.
Furthermore, laymen are ignorant
of the actual purpose of vampires or
of their physical existence per se.
All they want is what everyone else wants
which is sex, except, they are impatient
as well as infantile want-to-be partners for vampires,
and therefore, make for the best of targets.

New sex fiends, similar to vampires,
are formed as adults.
So, let us compare a vampire
to a typical, run of the mill monomaniac.

Both, vampires and sex fiends
dream of a family life
with dinner and an occasional dance
or a video and a good night sleep.
The only obstacle, they face each day
on the way to eternal happiness is,
on the one hand, the need
for warm blood, and
on the other, sperm dispensation.

Such weak points of
their core nature make the one
somewhat compatible with the other.
Needy people, they are,
no doubt about that.
Needy, deep down sensitive, and
gentle people who were preconditioned
to endless suffering.

Vampires, themselves, are quite capable
of making a living.
The best proof of that being their
enviable social standing among
the community of pusillanimous sex fiends.
Impeccably dressed, if not overdressed
for the occasion, female vampires
are known to draw attention to themselves,
and of course, they remain
readily available as casual sex partners.
It's just the way they are!
Sex, in the hands of vampires,
is a means of damage control;
that's why such favours are
never fully withdrawn.

Laymen are ready to work for it too!
This is a well-proven fact
considering the sex trade has always been
one of the best money-makers
in the world. Sex fiends
do well in construction as well as
marketing, religious practise,
trades, distribution, software development,
entertainment, transport, natural
resources, light and heavy industries,
environmental protection, manufacturing,
mass media, professional sports, fishing,
mining, tourism, law, and of course,
politics.

Male vampires on average
have limited interest in sexual favours,
mostly because of the complexity
of their own needs.
Fresh blood can best be obtained
by male bloodsuckers in a non-sexual setting
where their prey is busy working, unaware
of the red cell count dropping.

Male vampires do well in middle management,
psychology, business administration,
automotive services, conflict resolution, policing,
metallurgy, high-tech industries, research
and development, pharmaceuticals,
cosmetics, import-export, geriatrics, building
maintenance, plastic surgery,
gynaecology, photography, subliminal messaging,
and of course, zombiism.

Female vampires have a way of fulfilling
their needs without making themselves
vulnerable. That's because laymen
hardly ever notice anything when they're at it.
Still, sucking blood in today's world
is a risky business anyway.
The threat of Hep C and Aids
is hanging over everyone's head.

Female vampires do well in
social services, astrophysics, telephone surveys,
child care, accounting, fashion,
catering, biology, higher education,
sex trade, farming, money exchange,
art, literature, back stabbing,
and of course, Christmas.
That's about it!

Vampires age rather badly,
as a result of their own regrettable lifestyles.
That's why they'd rather not age at all.
Special needs make bodies
deteriorate faster. It's a hopeless battle
with one's own regressive genes
obstructing proper self-maintenance. Vampires
also tend to live solitary lives
leading to torpidity,
because they all feel ashamed
of having to crave beyond measure.

Contrary to popular belief held by
younger, inexperienced men, the vagina
is a considerably small-sized muscle
sometimes verging on the minuscule.
In which case, a female
would experience abdominal pains
whenever having intercourse;
the stretch of penetration being
severe enough to discourage her from
any future heterosexual contact.
Naturally, no reasonable woman would
openly admit to being built that small
or to being aware of being
different since there's no such thing
as a statistical average anyway.

In some distant societies,
all such circumstances and more
are considered equally important
in determining the outcome of
a well-arranged marriage.
Sources claim that the bridal vaginas
are known to have been measured
for proper depth with a stick
and possibly, blessed by
respective elders.

Myself, I wouldn't mind being so
validated and pre-approved by
a local authority; but, I guess
I'd better not ask, knowing
the efficiency of our social apparatus
in collecting steep operating fees
while leaking all available data.

Even the brightest of all younger,
inexperienced men are terrified
by what is supposed to happen next.
Hence, the definitive act of
exploration of Venus by Martian.
Novice men have no clue
where exactly the vagina is or
how to put a penis into it since it is
sealed by the labia from the outside and
then camouflaged by a lump of hair
like a movie-land bunker.

I suppose, all private parts serve
an intricate purpose including those
missing from records
collected since the discovery of
the original Lucy. All details
invariably connected to a central
command post regardless of
whether it has been justified by
the reproductive authority of the day.

Novice men float on mucus toward
an abyss of personal humiliation
with the best of intentions.
To put trust in their ability to
deal with the aftermath
of a sexual act is like
hoping for a pleasure boat
to prop itself against a random rock
before reaching the crest of Niagara Falls.

Women who have gained
enough related experience seem
equally amused by repeat contact
with the interplanetary explorers.
For once, the men's low frequency
voices render all attempts at
direct communication futile.
Martians do not menstruate and
remain incapable of the easiest
thing imaginable which is
getting pregnant (at the worst of
times). They don't have
the organs to initiate their
own social identity's wipe-out
caused by human error.
Martians are free to denounce
the bulge whenever they want and
leave the planet Earth
aboard complicated rocket-ships
which some of them do
while some don't.

Body-parts are not created equal.
Size notwithstanding,
only some terrestrials and
a percentage of aliens manage
to disperse their frequent flyer
points, and yet, appear
needy enough to mention it.

Regardless of what the Empire would say,
none of it really matters once
we blast ourselves off into
the universal galactogogue which is
littered with cutting debris, pending bills,
and ravaged by juveniles airborne
during the exploratory process.

You'll never be able to read
all of what they've written,
and yet, there's only so much
to be said in verse about the chaos
of existence and the awareness of
life's foreclosure, or the immeasurable
beauty of things that escape capture.
There's the rebirth and the fruition
of flora and fauna as is the
ever-present lore which enables us
to befog such issues.

Three-point-one million people
scattered over most of a decolonized world,
sent off the best of what they
have become to cyberdom – for posterity.
All such attempts at reconciliation
with the living would have taken an effort
far greater than cyber-space submission.
Perhaps, not a living soul remains
deserving of the price of a postage stamp.
That's all right, too.

Cyberdom is like a youthful lay
not quite to have gone through into
an inner void filled
with secrets of desire,
realized too late for redemption.

Submitting verse to cyber-space
is about due respect
not quite shown by others
from time beyond memory and
our insistence on universal
human pride.

Cyber-space for posterity
works against the tyranny of judgement.
Is serves as an antidote
for the word-power claimed by evil minds
in everyday life. It renders
moral lunacy of all media silly.

Not a line meant to be paid for upon delivery
has a place on poetry-dot-com.
Not a word of indifference commissioned
is worth the time it takes
to type into a dialog-box for free.
Besides, there's no significance to anything
in front of three-point-one million
word-smiths busily writing
rather than merely listening.

Yet, those who expect
to be read by someone other
than a mighty God with a "jpg" extension
better ask themselves why
it matters considering,
the only living being who can
make use of an e-mail moniker
is a computer hacker.

There must be a higher sense to it all
beyond three-point-one million
individual folders saved on poetry-dot-com.
Only through silence do we isolate
one another and are made to suffer
when denied self-expression.
The numbers are mind-boggling, and yet,
who would have guessed otherwise
how many die-hard romantics
have managed to escape the post-industrial
hell that puts spirits into marketable boxes?

Three-point-one million poets and counting
have earned a place in history
by proving impractical with
an expensive communication device.
One by one, they have escaped
totalitarian hell, unscathed.